Suspense is the hardest thing to bear—what a ridiculous truism! It has been said a thousand times before and will be said a thousand times again!—because it has come to everyone at some moment, and so its pain is universally understood. To have attained serenity would mean that one was strong enough not to allow suspense to cause one a moment's doubt or distress. I am far from serenity, I fear—for I am filled with unrest—I try to tell myself that Alathea Sharp does not matter in my life at all—that this is the end—that I am not to be influenced by her movements or her thoughts, or her comings and goings—I try not to think of her even as "Alathea"—And then when I have succeeded in some measure in all this, a hideous feeling of sinking comes over me—that physical sensation of a lead weight below the heart. What on earth is the good of living an ugly maimed life?

It was ten times easier to carry on under the most disgusting and fearsome circumstances when I was fighting, than it is now when everything is done for my comfort, and I have all that money can buy.

What money cannot buy is of the only real consequence though. I must read Henley again, and try to feel the thrill of pride I used to feel when I was a boy at the line "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul."

——What if she does not come back, and I do not hear any more of her?

Stop! Nicholas Thormonde, this is contemptible weakness!

This evening it was wonderful on the terrace, the sun set in a blaze of crimson and purple and gold, every window in the Galerie des Glasses seemed to be on fire—strange ghosts of by-gone courtiers appeared to be flitting past the mirrors.

What do they think of the turmoil they have left behind them, I wonder? Each generation torn by the same anguish which the worries of love bring?—And what is love for?—Just to surround the re-creative instinct with glamour and render it Æsthetic?

Did cave men love?—They were exempt from pain of the mind at all events. Civilization has augmented the mental anguishes, and pleasures of love, and when civilization is in excess it certainly distorts and perverts the whole passion.

But what is love anyway? the thing itself I mean. It is a want, and an ache and a craving—I know what I want. I want firstly Alathea for my own, with everything which that term implies of possession. Then I want to share her thoughts, and I want to feel all the great aspirations of her soul—I want her companionship—I want her sympathy—I want her understanding.

When I was in love with Nina—and five or six others—I never thought of any of these things—I just wanted their bodies: Therefore it is only when the spiritual enters into the damned thing, I suppose, that one could call it love. By that reasoning I have loved only Alathea in all my life. But I am stumped with this thought—If she had one eye and no leg below the knee—should I be in love with her? and feel all these exalted emotions about her? I cannot honestly be certain how I would answer that question yet, so this shows that the physical plays the chief rÔle even in a love that seems spiritual.

Matho—in Flaubert's SalammbÔ was beaten to a jelly but his eyes still flamed with love for his princess—But when she saw him as this revolting mass, did her love flame for him? Or was she exalted only by the incense to her vanity—and a pity for his sufferings? Heloise and Abelard were pretty wonderful in their love, but his love became transmuted much sooner than hers, because all physical emotions were gone from him. Plato's idea that man gravitates towards beauty for some subconscious soul desire to re-create himself through perfection, and so attain immortality, is probably the truth. And that is why we shrink from mutilated bodies—. Until I can be quite sure that I should love Alathea just the same were she disfigured as I am—I cannot in justice expect her to return my passion—.

Nina became re-attracted (if I can coin that word)—because I was out of reach. The predatory instinct in woman had received a rebuff, and demanded renewed advance.—She still keeps a picture in some part of her mental vision of what I was too, therefore, I am not so revolting to her—but Alathea has not this advantage, and has seen me only wounded.

I have done nothing to earn her respect—She has apprehended my useless life in these last months—She has heard the chattering of my companions, whom I have been free to choose—the obvious deduction being that these are what I desire—And finally, she knows that I have had a mistress.—In heaven's name why should she be anything but what she is in her manner to me!—Of course she despises me. So that the only thing I could possibly allure her by would be that intangible something which Nina and Suzette and even Coralie—have inferred that I possess—"It"!!—. And how would that translate itself to a mind like Alathea's?—It might mean nothing to her—It probably would not. The only times I have ever seen any feeling at all in her for me were when she thought she had destroyed a wounded man's interest in a harmless hobby—and felt remorse—And the freezing reserve which showed when she handed me the cheque-book—and the perturbation and contempt when I was rude about the child.—At other times she has shown a blank indifference—or a momentary consciousness that there was admiration in my eye for her.

Now what do I get out of the iciness over Suzette's cheque?

Two possibilities—.

One—that she is more prudish than one of her literary cultivation, and worldly knowledge is likely to be, so that she strongly disapproves of a man having a "petite amie"—or—

Two—that she has sensed that I love her and was affronted at the discovery that at the same time I had a—friend?—

The second possibility gives me hope, and so I fear to entertain a belief in it—but taken coldly it seems the most likely.—Now if she had not been affronted at this stage, would she have gone on believing I loved her, and so eventually have shown some reciprocity?

It is just possible—.

And as it is, will that same instinct which is in the subconscious mind of all women—and men too for the matter of that—which makes them want to fight to retain or retake what was theirs, influence her now unconsciously to feel some, even contemptuous, interest in me? This also is possible—.

If only fate brings her to me again—. That is where one is done—when absence cuts threads.

To-morrow it will be Monday—a whole week since I received her telegram.

I shall go up to Paris in the morning if I hear nothing and go myself to the Hotel de Courville to try and obtain a trace of her—if that is impossible I will write to the Duchesse.—

Reservoirs—Night:

As I wrote the last words—a note was brought to me by Burton—someone had left at the Hotel."Dear Sir Nicholas—(it ran)
I am very sorry I have been unable to come out to
do my work—but my brother died last Tuesday, and
I have been extremely occupied—I will be at Versailles
at eleven on Thursday as usual.
Yours truly,
A. Sharp."

————

Her firm writing, more like a man's than a woman's looked a little shaky at the end—Was she crying perhaps when she wrote the letter—the poor little girl—What will the death mean to her eventually? Will the necessity to work be lessened?

But even the gravity of the news did not prevent a feeling of joy and relief in me—I would see her again—Only four days to wait!

But what a strange note!—not any exhibition of feeling! she would not share even that natural emotion of grief with me. Her work is business, and a well bred person ought not to mix anything personal into it.—How will she be—? Colder than ever? or will it have softened her—.

She will probably be more unbending to Burton than to me.

The weather has changed suddenly, the wind is sighing, and I know that the summer is over—I shall have the sitting-room fire lighted and everything as comfortable as I can when she does turn up, and I shall have to stay here until then since I cannot communicate with her in any way. This ridiculous obscurity as to her address must be cleared away. I must try to ask her casually, so as not to offend her.

A week has passed—.

Alathea came on Thursday—I was sickeningly nervous on Thursday morning. I resented it extremely. As yet the only advance I have made is that I can control most of the outward demonstrations of my perturbations, but not the sensations themselves. I was sitting in my chair quite still when the door opened, and in she came—Just the scrap of a creature in dead black. Although there was no crepe, one could see that the garments were French trappings of woe, that is, she had a veil hanging from her simple small hat. I felt that she had had to buy these things for the funeral, and probably could not afford a second set of more dowdy ones for her working clothes, so that there was that indescribable air of elegance about her appearance which had shown in the Bois that Sunday. The black was supremely becoming to her transparent white skin, and seemed to set off the bright bronze brown of her hair—the rebellious little curls had slipped out beside her ears, but the yellow horn spectacles were as uncompromising as ever—I could not see whether her eyes were sad or no—her mouth was firm as usual.

"I want to tell you of my sympathy," I said immediately—"I was so sorry not to know your address that I might have expressed it to you before—I would have wished to send you some flowers."

"Thank you," was all she answered—but her voice trembled a little.

"It was so stupid of me not to have asked you for your address before—you must have thought it was so careless and unsympathetic."

"Oh! no"—.

"Won't you give it to me now that I may know in the future?"

"We are going to move—It would be useless—it is not decided where we go yet."

I knew I dared not insist.

"Is there some place where I could be certain of a message reaching you then? because I would have asked you to come to the flat to-day and not out here if I could have found you."

She was silent for a moment. I could see she was in a corner—I felt an awful brute but I had said it all quite naturally as any employer would who was quite unaware that there could be any reluctance to give the information, and I felt it was better to continue in this strain not to render her suspicious.

After a second or two she gave the number of a stationer's shop in the Avenue Mosart—.

"I pass there every day," she said.

I thanked her—.

"I hope you did not hurry back to your work—I can't bear to think that perhaps you would have wished to remain at home now."

"No, it does not matter"—There was an infinite weariness in her tone—A hopeless flatness I had never heard before, it moved me so that I blurted out—.

"Oh! I have felt so anxious, and so sorry—I saw you in the Bois two Sundays ago in the thunder storm, and I tried to get near the path I thought you would cross to offer you the carriage to return in, but I missed you—Perhaps your little brother caught cold then?"

There was a sob in her voice—.

"Yes—will you—would you mind if we just did not speak of anything but began work."

"Forgive me—I only want you to know that I'm so awfully sorry—and Oh, if there was anything in the world I could do for you—would you not let me?"

"I appreciate your wish—it is kind of you—but there is nothing—You were going to begin the last chapter over again—Here is the old one—I will take off my hat while you look at it," and she handed it to me.

Of course I could not say anything more—I had had a big bunch of violets put on the table where she types, in Burton's room adjoining—they were the first forced ones which could be got in Paris—and I had slipped a card by them with just "my sympathy" on it.

When she came back into the room hatless, her cheeks were bright pink below the glasses—and all she said was "Thank you" and then I saw a little streak of wet trickle from under the horn rims. I have never had such a temptation in my life—to stretch out my arms and cry "Darling one, let me comfort you, here clasped close to me!"—I longed to touch her—to express somehow that I felt profoundly for her grief.—

"Miss Sharp—" I did burst out—"I am not saying anything because I know you don't want me to—but it is not because I do not feel—I'm—I'm—awfully sorry—May not I perhaps send some roses to—your home—or, perhaps there is someone there who would like them—flowers are such jolly things!"—Then I felt the awfully ill chosen word "jolly" was—but I could not alter it.

I believe that gaucherie on my part helped though a little, her fine senses understood it was because I was so nervously anxious to offer comfort—a much kinder note came into her voice—.

"I'll take the violets with me if you will let me," she said—"Please don't trouble about anything more—and do let us begin work."

So we started upon the Chapter.

Her hands were not so red I noticed. I am becoming sensitive to what is called "atmosphere" I suppose, for I felt all the currents in the room were disturbed—that ambience of serenity did not surround Alathea and keep me unconsciously in awe of her as it always has before—I was aware that my natural emotions were running riot and that my one eye was gazing at her with love in it, and that my imagination was conjuring up scenes of delight with her as a companion. Her want of complete control allowed the waves to reach her, I expect—for I knew that she was using all her will to keep her attention upon the work, and that she was nearly as disturbed as I was myself—.

But how was she disturbed?—was she just nervous from events—or was I causing her any personal trouble? The moment I felt that perhaps I was, a feeling of assurance and triumph came over me—! Then I used every bit of the cunning I possess—I tried to say subtle things—I made her talk about the ridiculous book, and the utterly unimportant furniture—I made her express her opinion about styles, and got out of her that a simple Queen Anne was what she herself preferred.—I knew that she was giving way and talking with less stiffness because she was weak with sorrow, and probably had not had much sleep—I knew that it was not because she had forgotten about the Suzette cheque or really was more friendly. I knew that I was taking an unfair advantage of her—but I continued—Men are really brutes after all!—and gloried in my power every time the slightest indication showed that I possessed it! I lost some of my diffidence—If I could only have stood upon two feet and seen with two eyes—I know that even the morning would have ended by my taking her in my arms, cost what might; but as I was glued to my chair she was enabled always at this stage to stay out of reach—and fenced gallantly with me by silence and stiff answers—but by luncheon time there was a distinct gain on my side—I had made her feel something, I no longer was a nonentity who did not count—.

Her skin is so transparent that the colour fluctuates with every emotion. I love to watch it. What a mercy that I had very strong sight!—for my one eye sees quite clearly.

At luncheon we talked of the time of the Fronde—Alathea is so wonderfully well read. I make dashes into all sorts of subjects, and find she knows more of them than I do myself—What a mind she must have to have acquired all this in her short twenty-three years.

"You are not thinking of leaving Paris, I hope when you move," I said as we drank coffee. "I am going to begin another book directly this one is finished."

"It is not yet decided," she answered abruptly.

"I could not write without you."

Silence.

"I would love to think that you took an interest in teaching me how to be an author—."

The faintest shrug of the shoulders—.

"You don't take any interest?"

"No."

"Are not you very unkind?"—

"No—If you have anything to complain of in my work I will listen attentively and try and alter it."

"You will never allow the slightest friendship?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Why should I?"

"I must be grateful even that you ask a question, I suppose—Well, I don't know quite myself why you should—You think I am a rotter—You despise my character—you think my life is wasted and that—er—I have undesirable friends."

Silence.

"Miss Sharp! you drive me crazy never answering—I can't think why you like to be so provoking!" I was stung to exasperation.

"Sir Nicholas," and she put down her cup with displeasure—"If you will not keep to the subject of work—I am sorry but I cannot stay as your secretary."

Terror seized me—.

"I shall have to if you insist upon it—I suppose—but I am longing to be friends with you—and I can't think why you should resent it so—We are both English, we are both—unhappy—we are both lonely—."

Silence!—

"Somehow I don't feel it is altogether because I am a revolting object to look at that you are so unkind—you must have seen lots like me since the war—."

"I am not unkind—I think you are—May I go to my work now?"

We rose from the table—And for a second she was so near to me the pent up desire of weeks mastered me and the tantalization of the morning overcame me so that a frantic temptation seized me—I could not resist it—I put out one arm while I steadied myself with the other by the back of a chair, and I drew her tiny body towards me, and pressed my lips to her Cupid's bow of a mouth—And Oh God the pleasure of it—right or wrong!

She went dead white when I released her, she trembled, and in her turn held on to the back of the chair—.

"How dare you!" she panted—"How dare you!—I will go this minute—You are not a gentleman."

The reaction came to me—.

"That is it, I suppose—" I said hoarsely—"I am not a gentleman underneath—the civilization is mere veneer—and the man breaks through it—I have nothing to say—I was mad, that is all. You will have to weigh up as to whether it is worth your while to stay with me or not. I cannot judge of that. I can only assure you that I will try not to err again—perhaps some day you will know how you have been making me suffer lately—I shall go to my room now, and you can let me have your decision in an hour or so—."

I could not move because my crutch had fallen to the floor out of my reach—She stood in indecision for a moment and then she bent and picked it up and gave it to me. She was still as white as a ghost. As I got to the door I turned and said—.

"I apologize for having lost my self-control—I am ashamed of that—and do not ask you to forgive me—Your staying or not is a business arrangement. I give you my word I will try never to be so weak again."

She was gazing at me—For once I had taken the wind out of her sails—.

Then I bowed and hobbled on into my bedroom, shutting the door after me.

Here my courage deserted me. I got to the bed with difficulty and threw myself down upon it and lay there, too filled with emotion to stir. The thought tormenting me always. Have I burnt my boats—or is this only the beginning of a new stage?

Time will tell.