each strange insistent object seemed craning forward from its place
to hear him.

"It was I who put the stuff in the melon," he said. "And I don't
want you to think I'm sorry for it. This isn't 'remorse,'
understand. I'm glad the old skin-flint is dead--I'm glad the others
have their money. But mine's no use to me any more. My sister
married miserably, and died. And I've never had what I wanted."

Ascham continued to stare; then he said: "What on earth was your
object, then?"

"Why, to _get_ what I wanted--what I fancied was in reach! I wanted
change, rest, _life_, for both of us--wanted, above all, for myself,
the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home
to tie myself up to my work. And I've slaved at it steadily for ten
years without reward--without the most distant hope of success!
Nobody will look at my stuff. And now I'm fifty, and I'm beaten, and
I know it." His chin dropped forward on his breast. "I want to chuck
the whole business," he ended.






III