him that would not give in--neither to the whiskey, nor the woman, nor
even the music. Even in the midst of his best music, it sat in the
middle of him, this invisible black dog, and growled and waited, never
to be cajoled. He knew of its presence--and was a little uneasy. For
of course he _wanted_ to let himself go, to feel rosy and loving and
all that. But at the very thought, the black dog showed its teeth.

Still he kept the beast at bay--with all his will he kept himself as
it were genial. He wanted to melt and be rosy, happy.

He sipped his whiskey with gratification, he luxuriated in the presence
of the landlady, very confident of the strength of her liking for him.
He glanced at her profile--that fine throw-back of her hostile head,
wicked in the midst of her benevolence; that subtle, really very
beautiful delicate curve of her nose, that moved him exactly like a
piece of pure sound. But tonight it did not overcome him. There was
a devilish little cold eye in his brain that was not taken in by what
he saw.

A terrible obstinacy located itself in him. He saw the fine, rich-
coloured, secretive face of the Hebrew woman, so loudly self-
righteous, and so dangerous, so destructive, so lustful--and he waited
for his blood to melt with passion for her. But not tonight. Tonight
his innermost heart was hard and cold as ice. The very danger and
lustfulness of her, which had so pricked his senses, now made him
colder. He disliked her at her tricks. He saw her once too often.
Her and all women. Bah, the love game! And the whiskey that was to
help in the game! He had drowned himself once too often in whiskey
and in love. Now he floated like a corpse in both, with a cold,
hostile eye.