He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a
cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow
and temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that
way. His attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches
at fame! He couldn't make himself a real life, and he couldn't get
rid of the life he had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to
help him...

The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself
for his delay.

"I didn't like to say anything while your man was about--but the
fact is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter--"

"Oh, it's all right," said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to
feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not
any recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper
withdrawal into himself. It was easier to go on automatically with
the social gestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss
within him.

"My dear fellow, it's sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting--especially
the production of an artist like yours." Mr. Ascham sipped his
Burgundy luxuriously. "But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me."

Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a
moment he was shaken out of his self-absorption.

"_Mrs. Ashgrove?_"