old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow he would go
for a jaunt somewhere--perhaps down the Clyde, or to the South of
England, which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled country.
No more lonely inns and deserted villages for him; henceforth he
would make certain of comfort and peace.

The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved down the dreary vista of
Eglinton street, the sky opened into fields of blue and the April sun
silvered the puddles. It was in such place and under such weather
that Dickson suffered an overwhelming experience.

It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the game of psycho-analysis,
to explain how this thing happened. I concern myself only with facts.
Suddenly the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent from top to bottom,
and Dickson saw a figure of himself within, a smug leaden little figure
which simpered and preened itself and was hollow as a rotten nut.
And he hated it.

The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had been right.
He only played with life. That imbecile image was a mere spectator,
content to applaud, but shrinking from the contact of reality.
It had been all right as a provision merchant, but when it
fancied itself capable of higher things it had deceived itself.
Foolish little image with its brave dreams and its swelling words
from Browning! All make-believe of the feeblest. He was a coward,
running away at the first threat of danger. It was as if he were
watching a tall stranger with a wand pointing to the embarrassed
phantom that was himself, and ruthlessly exposing its frailties!
And yet the pitiless showman was himself too--himself as he wanted to be,
cheerful, brave, resourceful, indomitable.