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 plus the hour in Léon Vaudreuil's old rendezvous, made him chafe more than ever at the restrictions of his job. That his efforts had been honest was proved by the fact that he, too, had been given a "raise"—not two, like Rhoda, and not a large one, but at least a token of merit.

He had outgrown the old sharp torments, though he had also outgrown the old sharp ecstasies, the thrills of surprise, the daily shocks of interest as he unwrapped little packages of life and found the contents utterly different from what he had been led to guess by the shape of the bundle. In their place was a steadier, less wavy undulation, representing a mean of contentment sinking now and again to sombre meditation, rising now and again to a glow that he could only describe to himself as mental health. For a time his moods were shadowed by the fate of Marthe. He had returned to the asylum one day only to be denied admission. Marthe had relapsed—this time beyond hope.

Early to bed and early to rise—what a milk and water fate, he was thinking. Yet he stuck to his job, perhaps with the idea of proving to himself that he had the endurance, though tempting visions came to him of peaceful spring and summer days by the sea, in Normandy or on the riviera, writing, writing, spinning the story out of himself like an indefatigable spider. Late to bed and late to rise makes a man—heaven knows what, but at least he could promise him-