a piece of property.  Whatever had happened—­well, had happened.  He had not come back this time with the vanity of that question, his former worrying “What, what?” now practically so spent.  Yet he would none the less never again so cut himself off from the spot; he would come back to it every month, for if he did nothing else by its aid he at least held up his head.  It thus grew for him, in the oddest way, a positive resource; he carried out his idea of periodical returns, which took their place at last among the most inveterate of his habits.  What it all amounted to, oddly enough, was that in his finally so simplified world this garden of death gave him the few square feet of earth on which he could still most live.  It was as if, being nothing anywhere else for any one, nothing even for himself, he were just everything here, and if not for a crowd of witnesses or indeed for any witness but John Marcher, then by clear right of the register that he could scan like an open page.  The open page was the tomb of his friend, and there were the facts of the past, there the truth of his life, there the backward reaches in which he could lose himself.  He did this from time to time with such effect that he seemed to wander through the old years with his hand in the arm of a companion who was, in the most extraordinary manner, his other, his younger self; and to wander, which was more extraordinary yet, round and round a third presence—­not wandering she, but stationary, still, whose eyes, turning with his revolution, never ceased to follow him, and whose seat was his point, so to speak, of orientation.  Thus in short he settled to live—­feeding all on the sense that he once had lived, and dependent on it not alone for a support but for an identity.

It sufficed him in its way for months and the year elapsed; it would doubtless even have carried him further but for an accident, superficially slight, which moved him, quite in another direction, with a force beyond any of his impressions of Egypt or of India.  It was a thing of the merest chance—­the turn, as he afterwards felt, of a hair, though he was indeed to live to believe that if light hadn’t come to him in this particular fashion it would still have come in another.  He was to live to believe this, I say, though he was not to live, I may not less definitely mention, to do much else.  We allow him at any rate the benefit of the conviction, struggling up for him at the end, that, whatever might have happened or not happened, he would have come round of himself to the light.  The incident of an autumn day had put the match to the train laid from of old by his misery.  With the light before him he knew that even of late his ache had only been smothered.  It was strangely drugged, but it throbbed; at the touch it began to bleed.  And the touch, in the event, was the face of a fellow-mortal.  This face, one grey afternoon when the leaves were thick in the alleys, looked into Marcher’s own, at