and learned it like a lesson.  They wrote and asked me for another on the strength of “The Courting of Amandar Jane.”  The Permeator was keen on Kipling and water, and I gave it to them—­especially the water.  Like all Southern families the Dundonalds had once had their day.  I had travelled everywhere when I was a boy, and so I accordingly refreshed my dim memories with some modern travellers and wrote a short series for The Little Gentleman; “The Boy in the Carpathians,” “The Boy in Old Louisiana,” “A Boy in the Tyrol,” “A Boy in London,” “A Boy in Paris,” “A Boy at the Louvre,” “A Boy in Corsica,” “A Boy in the Reconstruction.”  I reeled off about twenty of them and sold them to advantage.

It was a terribly dreary task, and I had moments of revolt when I stamped up and down my little flat and felt like throwing my resolution to the winds.  But I stuck tight to the ink-bottle and fought the thing through.  My novelette, strange to say, was good.  Written against time and against inclination, it has always been regarded since as the best thing I ever did, and when published in book form outran three editions.

I made a thundering lot of money—­for me, I mean, and in comparison to my usual income—­seldom under five hundred dollars a month and often more.  In eleven weeks I had repaid Grossensteck and had a credit in the bank.  Nine hundred dollars has always remained to me as a unit of value, a sum of agonising significance not lightly to be spoken of, the fruits of hellish industry and self-denial.  All this while I had had never a word from the Grossenstecks.  At least they wrote to me often—­telephoned—­ telegraphed—­and my box at the club was choked with their letters.  But I did not open a single one of them, though I found a pleasure in turning them over and over, and wondering as to what was within them.  There were several in Teresa’s fine hand, and these interested me most of all and tantalised me unspeakably.  There was one of hers, cunningly addressed to me in a stranger’s writing that I opened inadvertently; but I at once perceived the trick and had the strength of mind to throw it in the fire unread.

Perhaps you will wonder at my childishness.  Sometimes I wondered at it myself.  But the wound still smarted, and something stronger than I seemed to withhold me from again breaking the ice.  Besides, those long lonely days, and those nights, almost as long in the retrospect, when I lay sleepless on my bed, had shown me I had been drifting into another peril no less dangerous than dependence.  I had been thinking too much of the girl for my own good, and our separation had brought me to a sudden realisation of how deeply I was beginning to care for her.  I hated her, too, the pitiless wretch, so there was a double reason for me not to go back.

One night as I had dressed to dine out and stepped into the street, looking up at the snow that hid the stars and silenced one’s footsteps on the pavement, a woman emerged from the gloom, and before I knew what she was doing, had caught my arm.  I shook her off, thinking her a beggar or something worse, and would have passed on my way had she not again struggled to detain me.  I stopped, and was on the point of roughly ordering her to let me go, when I looked down into her veiled face and saw that it was Teresa Grossensteck.