‘Here we go again. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. You seem altogether altered, too. . It never is. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep.
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