“Why, Garsington, is it you? What do you want at this hour?”
“Screw yourself up, Bingham, I’ve something to tell you,” he answered in a thick voice.
“What is it? another disaster, I suppose. Is somebody else dead?”
“Yes; somebody is. Honoria’s dead. Burnt to death at the ball.”
“Great God! Honoria burnt to death. I had better go——”
“I advise you not, Bingham. I wouldn’t go to the hospital if I were you. Screw yourself up, and if you can, give me something to drink—I’m about done—I must screw myself up.”
And here we may leave this most fortunate and gifted man. Farewell to Geoffrey Bingham.
ENVOI.
Thus, then, did these human atoms work out their destinies, these little grains of animated dust, blown hither and thither by a breath which came they knew not whence.