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later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, white and cowering.

      “I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother,” he said in a small voice.

      “Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was when she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural, as if nothing had altered.”

      But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror.

      The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhaps a little relief, mostly a nuit blanche. Paul went restless from place to place. For some months, since his mother had been worse, he had not made love to Clara. She was, as it were, dumb to him, rather distant. Dawes saw her very occasionally, but the two could not get an inch across the great distance between them. The three of them were drifting forward.

      Dawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home at Skegness at Christmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the seaside for a few days. His father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes came to Paul's lodgings. His time in the home was up. The two men, between whom was such a big reserve, seemed faithful to each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. He knew Paul and Clara had practically separated.

      Two days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. The evening before he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire.

      “You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?” he said.

      The other man glanced at him.

      “Yes, you told me,” he replied.

      Paul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky.

      “I told the landlady your wife was coming,” he said.

      “Did you?” said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself in the other's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for Morel's glass.

      “Let me fill you up,” he said.

      Paul jumped up.

      “You sit still,” he said.

      But Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink.

      “Say when,” he said.

      “Thanks!” replied the other. “But you've no business to get up.”

      “It does me good, lad,” replied Dawes. “I begin to think I'm right again, then.”

      “You are about right, you know.”

      “I am, certainly I am,” said Dawes, nodding to him.

      “And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield.”

      Dawes glanced at him again, with dark eyes that agreed with everything the other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by him.

      “It's funny,” said Paul, “starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess than you.”

      “In what way, lad?”

      “I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort of hole, rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere.”

      “I know—I understand it,” Dawes said, nodding. “But you'll find it'll come all right.”

      He spoke caressingly.

      “I suppose so,” said Paul.

      Dawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion.

      “You've not done for yourself like I have,” he said.

      Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man gripping the stem of the pipe and knocking out the ash, as if he had given up.

      “How old are you?” Paul asked.

      “Thirty-nine,” replied Dawes, glancing at him.

      Those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleading for reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warm him, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul.

      “You'll just be in your prime,” said Morel. “You don't look as if much life had gone out of you.”

      The brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly.

      “It hasn't,” he said. “The go is there.”

      Paul looked up and laughed.

      “We've both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly,” he said.

      The eyes of the two men met. They exchanged one look. Having recognised the stress of passion each in the other, they both drank their whisky.

      “Yes, begod!” said Dawes, breathless.

      There was a pause.

      “And I don't see,” said Paul, “why you shouldn't go on where you left off.”

      “What—” said Dawes, suggestively.

      “Yes—fit your old home together again.”

      Dawes hid his face and shook his head.

      “Couldn't be done,” he said, and looked up with an ironic smile.

      “Why? Because you don't want?”

      “Perhaps.”

      They smoked in silence. Dawes showed his teeth as he bit his pipe stem.

      “You mean you don't want her?” asked Paul.

      Dawes stared up at the picture with a caustic expression on his face.

      “I hardly know,” he said.

      The smoke floated softly up.

      “I believe she wants you,” said Paul.

      “Do you?” replied the other, soft, satirical, abstract.

      “Yes. She never really hitched on to me—you were always there in the background. That's why she wouldn't get a divorce.”

      Dawes continued to stare in a satirical fashion at the picture over the mantelpiece.

      “That's how women are with me,” said Paul. “They want me like mad, but they don't want to belong to me. And she BELONGED to you all the time. I knew.”

      The triumphant male came up in Dawes. He showed his teeth more distinctly.

      “Perhaps I was a fool,” he said.

      “You were a big fool,” said Morel.

      “But perhaps even THEN you were a bigger fool,” said Dawes.

      There was a touch of triumph and malice in it.

      “Do you think so?” said Paul.

      They were silent for some time.

      “At any rate, I'm clearing out to-morrow,” said Morel.

      “I see,” answered Dawes.

      Then they did not talk any more. The instinct to murder each other had returned. They almost avoided each other.

      They shared the same bedroom. When they retired Dawes seemed abstract, thinking of something. He sat on the side of the bed in his shirt, looking at his legs.

      “Aren't you getting cold?” asked Morel.

      “I was lookin' at these legs,” replied the other.

      “What's up with 'em? They look all right,” replied Paul, from his bed.

      “They look all right. But there's some water in 'em yet.”

      “And what about it?”

      “Come and look.”

      Paul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather handsome legs of the other man that were covered with glistening, dark gold hair.

      “Look here,” said Dawes, pointing to his shin. “Look at the water under here.”

      “Where?”

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