Emily de Reuss was still denied to him, Cicely seemed to have passed of her own will entirely out of his life.  In those days, either might easily have obtained an empire over him, for he was in a keenly impressionable stage of living, passing through one of those crises which, in men of more experience, come earlier in life.  He was full of emotions struggling for expression—­it seemed to him, at last, that in solitude he would never find an outlet for them.  If he had known where to look he would have sought for Cicely at all risks.  He even looked for her nightly at the spot of their first meeting—­but always in vain.  It was as though she had vanished into thin air.  By chance he heard of her at last.  She had sent some work to Drexley which he had decided to accept.  He spoke warmly of it, but when Douglas asked for her address he shook his head.  It had come to him with the proviso of anonymous publication, and his own secrecy as to her whereabouts.  He was able to tell Douglas nothing, refused even when he was pressed.  Douglas left him with an angry exclamation upon his lips.

His solitude became intolerable.  One night he looked out his dress clothes and dined at a large cosmopolitan restaurant, where men and women of all sorts were gathered together.  Then for the first time he realised something of the tawdriness of this life of pleasure, which seemed ever calling to him through the open windows of his lonely room.  He had a small table to himself, ordered his dinner with care, and drank champagne to bring his spirits so far as possible into touch with the general atmosphere.  There was music playing all the while, and the ripple of gay feminine voices fell constantly upon his ears.  Women were all around him, gaily dressed and bejewelled, a soft, voluptuous wave of enjoyment seemed floating about the place, enfolding them all—­save him.  For as he watched and listened his face grew darker and his heart heavier.  He felt himself out of place, outside the orbit of these people, very little in sympathy with them.  He looked at the woman sitting at the next table, elegantly dressed, laden with jewels, whose laughter was incessant and speeches pointless—­her companion found her interesting enough, but Douglas was conscious of nothing save her restless desire to please, her little bursts of frivolous mirth and an ugly twitch of her lips which every now and then revolted him.  It was a chance, perhaps, or a mood, which made him look out upon a scene, ordinary enough and inoffensive, through dun-coloured spectacles.  He paid his bill and walked thoughtfully homeward, thankful for the cool night air which fanned his forehead.  He even entered his bare sitting-room and threw up the window with a positive feeling of relief.

He brought out his work, lighted a cigarette and sat there smoking thoughtfully.  The match which kindled his lamp showed him a large square envelope on his mantelpiece.  He tore it open and drew out a letter.  It was from Emily.