the long falling breath of wakeful grief. One night she asked whether
Tony would like to have her by her side.

'No, dear,' was the answer in the dark; 'but you know my old pensioners,
the blind fifer and his wife; I've been thinking of them.'

'They were paid as they passed down the street yesterday, my love.'

'Yes, dear, I hope so. But he flourishes his tune so absurdly. I've
been thinking, that is the part I have played, instead of doing the
female's duty of handing round the tin-cup for pennies. I won't cry any
more.'

She sighed and turned to sleep, leaving Emma to disburden her heart in
tears.

For it seemed to her that Tony's intellect was weakened. She not merely
abased herself and exalted Dacier preposterously, she had sunk her
intelligence in her sensations: a state that she used to decry as the sin
of mankind, the origin of error and blood.

Strangely too, the proposal came from her, or the suggestion of it,
notwithstanding her subjectedness to the nerves, that she should show
her face in public. She said: 'I shall have to run about, Emmy, when I
can fancy I am able to rattle up to the old mark. At present, I feel
like a wrestler who has had a fall. As soon as the stiffness is over,
it's best to make an appearance, for the sake of one's backers, though I
shall never be in the wrestling ring again.'

'That is a good decision--when you feel quite yourself, dear Tony,' Emma