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 that his work for Kidder would not pay his expenses, that he knew of nothing which Margaret could do. He came on the forlorn hope that there might be an important letter of some sort waiting him at his old rooms; and in another rush of panic-stricken activity he hurried towards that improbability as if it had been the most certain aid. He saw the streets cold, unfriendly, crowded, as busy as machinery, and as remorseless. He was always to remember them in that aspect—as an exhausted swimmer, struggling to reach shore, will remember the horrible composure of level water that engulfed his feeble agonies without so much as showing a shudder on its vast blank of cruelty.

Conroy opened the door to him, blocking it with a challenging scowl.

"Are there any letters for me here?" "No."

"Is Bert in?"

"No."

Don saw a woman's hat and veil on the dining-room table. He looked inquiringly at his cousin; and Conroy shut the door on that look as if he considered it an impertinence.

Don turned towards his lodgings, too weak to drag himself any further. He was conscious only of the physical need of rest. At thought of the shelter of his room, he ached, body and mind, for the closed door and the bed that awaited him.

Margaret, at midday, knocked to discover whether he had returned; and he put on cheerfulness like a mask