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 that some mysterious principle, perhaps inherent in his own temperament, but none the less potent for that, was operating against him. Love, pleasure, the joy of work, the sense of contributing a quota to the profitable activities of the universe, of helping to further the aims of God,—all were denied him. In the place of such satisfactions was the burden of his own uncertainties. And the vision of Léon's sister, that astonishing apparition, instead of bringing him a joy that another man would have known how to wring out of it, merely taunted him.

He could not bring himself to return to the flat. Mme. Choiseul was under the weather. Her avoué had bungled some business for her, something to do with interest on a mortgage, and she had come out in red spots and taken to her bed, leaving a half-finished paint job on the kitchen floor. The apartment was vaguely redolent of woe and indigestion and turpentine and perfidy nobly, if very vocally, borne with; it held no charm for him. He turned on his heel and walked aimlessly, through the Place Clichy, along the cold, sordid boulevards of Montmartre, his feet damp, his mind dizzy, bewildered, crushed, and resigned. He dreamed of a Sophie Scantleberry twenty years younger, and cursed the fate that hadn't allowed them to be contemporaries.

The street lamps were making great dirty yellow moons in the greenish twilight. He had gone as far as the Place de la République and turned into a narrow