a profoundly
morbid condition; he could not steady his hand for half an hour after. Yet this
particular critic only said what was quite true - that the novel contained not a
single striking scene and not one living character; Reardon had expressed
himself about it in almost identical terms. But he saw himself in the position
of one sickly and all but destitute man against a relentless world, and every
blow directed against him appeared dastardly. He could have cried »Coward!« to
the writer who wounded him.
    The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's hands had
perhaps more merit than »Margaret Home«; its brevity, and the fact that nothing
more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events, made it not unreadable.
But Reardon thought of it with humiliation. If it were published as his next
work it would afford final proof to such sympathetic readers as he might still
retain that he had hopelessly written himself out, and was now endeavouring to
adapt himself to an inferior public. In spite of his dire necessities he now and
then hoped that Jedwood might refuse the thing.
    At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four months he
was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses were the mere outcome of his
nervous disease. He had no faith in himself under present conditions; the
permanence of his sufferings would mean the sure destruction of powers he still
possessed, though they were not at his command. Yet he believed that his mind
was made up as to the advisability of trying this last resource; he was
impatient for the day of departure, and in the interval merely killed time as
best he might. He could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his
next book; the delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for the
barrenness of day after day. His »Pliny« article had been despatched to The
Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble himself about
this or other details; it was as though his mind could do nothing more than
grasp the bald fact of impending destitution; with the steps towards that final
stage he seemed to have little concern.
    One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom he had not
seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copy of »Margaret
Home« left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffen resided in Clipstone Street,
a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim district which lies between Portland
Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking at the door of the lodging-house,
Reardon