George, a man-about-town, would have stared at being called provincial, but a man cannot stare away his nature.  He was provincial enough to keep Mrs. Bellew bound when she herself was tired of him, and consideration for her, and for his own self-respect asked him to give her up.  He had been keeping her bound for two months or more.  But there was much excuse for him.  His heart was sore to breaking-point; he was sick with longing, and deep, angry wonder that he, of all men, should be cast aside like a worn-out glove.  Men tired of women daily—­that was the law.  But what was this?  His dogged instinct had fought against the knowledge as long as he could, and now that it was certain he fought against it still.  George was a true Pendyce!

To the world, however, he behaved as usual.  He came to the club about ten o’clock to eat his breakfast and read the sporting papers.  Towards noon a hansom took him to the railway-station appropriate to whatever race-meeting was in progress, or, failing that, to the cricket-ground at Lord’s, or Prince’s Tennis Club.  Half-past six saw him mounting the staircase at the Stoics’ to that card-room where his effigy still hung, with its look of “Hard work, hard work; but I must keep it going!” At eight he dined, a bottle of champagne screwed deep down into ice, his face flushed with the day’s sun, his shirt-front and his hair shining with gloss.  What happier man in all great London!

But with the dark the club’s swing-doors opened for his passage into the lighted streets, and till next morning the world knew him no more.  It was then that he took revenge for all the hours he wore a mask.  He would walk the pavements for miles trying to wear himself out, or in the Park fling himself down on a chair in the deep shadow of the trees, and sit there with his arms folded and his head bowed down.  On other nights he would go into some music-hall, and amongst the glaring lights, the vulgar laughter, the scent of painted women, try for a moment to forget the face, the laugh, the scent of that woman for whom he craved.  And all the time he was jealous, with a dumb, vague jealousy of he knew not whom; it was not his nature to think impersonally, and he could not believe that a woman would drop him except for another man.  Often he went to her Mansions, and walked round and round casting a stealthy stare at her windows.  Twice he went up to her door, but came away without ringing the bell.  One evening, seeing a light in her sitting-room, he rang, but there came no answer.  Then an evil spirit leaped up in him, and he rang again and again.  At last he went away to his room—­a studio he had taken near—­and began to write to her.  He was long composing that letter, and many times tore it up; he despised the expression of feelings in writing.  He only tried because his heart wanted relief so badly.  And this, in the end, was all that he produced: 

“I know you were in to-night.  It’s the only time I’ve come.  Why
couldn’t you have let me in?  You’ve no right to treat me like this. 
You are leading me the life of a dog.” 
                                             George.