a little, and she smiled graciously on Rudd when it was time to leave for the matinée, but for Doran she had only gloom and displeasure.

Rudd sat on over a cigar and recalled Chislehurst. Poor old Doran was in for it. That kind of girl wanted a master. He must have disappointed her very grievously in some way. Poor old Doran. How did the words go-"Love, honour and obey"?

Rudd shuddered. Of all his bêtes noires there was none more dreadful than a "vinegar"; and broken promises distressed him poignantly. Young married people should be happy and loving-it was monstrous if they were not. Quarrels were horrible. At this rate, what on earth would the Doran ménage be like in another year or so?

For a day or two it amused him, as he walked about, to pick out the kind of girl who might have made Doran a perfect wife.

But for himself not yet did he seek.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE DREAD SMALL HOURS

HALF-PAST-THREE in the morning was always

Rudd's worst time. If he woke earlier he could sleep again quickly; if he woke later he could sleep again quickly; if he woke then he was doomed to eternities of wakeful self-reproach, remorse, and hopelessness. Normally he could shake trouble off; at 3.30 a.m. he was powerless. Despair and he were wed.

Rudd grew up late-if ever he grew up at all in the full sense of the phrase. He had indeed two halves, the development of one of which was permanently arrested. Side by side with a cynical preparedness for every kind of disillusion dwelt a childlike enthusiasm for gaiety and entertainment, for life in its

essence.

To every place where life was to be found—or, in other words, creativeness, mastery, authenticity, no matter in what medium-Rudd was sure to go. His constant quest was for the genuine, and his pleasure on finding it was intense and absorbing. To this, to such a store of beguilements, was due the quickness

of his recoveries from hopelessness and probably the prolonged duration of his childhood.

Different are the armaments with which men stave off the arch-fiend Anno Domini; Rudd's was a critical curiousness, so varied as almost never to be lacking a field of investigation. Too seldom was it rewarded by complete satisfaction, but when it was, his state for a while was ecstatic. He rejoiced to be able to praise.

But at 3.30 a.m.! He had no resources then, no anodyne. Then, his brain whirled with thoughts dark and not to be vanquished. Then, the past was a procession of lost opportunities and unfortunate deeds, the present an anguish, the future merely an accelerated progress, marked by poverty and illness, towards the grave and cold unimaginable vacuity with Mr. Dimsdale.

It was then that Rudd envied his mother her simple faith. At 3.30 a.m. religion in whatever form you take it, but preferably, I suppose, in the tasteless capsule form as put up by Rome, is indeed a comfort and a joy. One can make an excellent show without it during the week, and even on Sundays: but at 3.30 a.m.

Rudd, however, drew no solace from that source. Such Christianity as he had was from the common stock which warmed the world before Galilee was a lake and which can never cease. It was of the heart, not the head. Dogma found him unresponsive and left him shivering.

One night Rudd woke again, at the dread hour, with the sudden recognition of a new truth.

He had been on a flying visit to Caston, and had looked up several old friends, and had seen in the streets several persons whom he had known by sight years before. To his immense astonishment he had recognized quite a number from their backs; and had then formed a conception of what time had been doing with their faces, and found it more or less accurate.

There was a debt-collector whom he used to see almost every day, years ago; and yesterday he had seen him again. The debt-collector was stouter and thicker; that was all. His step was still brisk, and his eye still alert for acquaintances to whom to flourish a hand.

For some reason or other Rudd was surprised to find him still alive. He had a kind of feeling that all these people ought to be dead by now. Again and again upon identifying men whom he had known as younger men or even youths he had this thought: that it was marvellous they were still alive. Yet he was only in the middle twenties himself.

And what a life for the debt-collector to have been leading all that time!-just the same, day after day, putting pressure on unfortunate persons with whom money was tight. Extracting an instalment here, threatening a summons there, all his life. Had he ever, Rudd wondered, wanted to do anything else, or was he contented? Was his ambition fulfilled? Now it was too late to alter; this was the end.

Rudd visited some acquaintances in business. Their offices seemed so provincial, so unlike London. London, although so near, seemed so far away. To live in the real country was all right; but how could anyone willingly live in a provincial town? Rudd would have perished sooner. Yet these friends of his seemed quite happy: their lives were cheerfully spent within these narrow boundaries. Rudd laughed and joked, but also he shuddered, so little of a philosopher was he, so fundamentally unprepared for any facts except the facts that he wanted.

He found his relations growing older. But then every one was growing older. It was the foolish rule of life. And old age was seldom attractive. He noticed that double or even treble chins seemed to be a rule among his kith and kin, and wondered what steps he could take against himself falling into that fashion.

He met a pretty woman, with two small boys in red jerseys, one on each side, tugging at her hands. Good heavens! surely that was Violet Ward.

She looked closely at him and then smiled.
He stopped.

Years ago

do so now.

he had called her Violet. But he couldn't

"Of course I know you," he said, "but I don't know your new name."

How extraordinary that since he had left and she had grown up and put up her nice fair hair the world