"I understand," said Judith. He wondered if she really did.
A cold rain had been falling steadily all evening. The street lamps flickered dismally through the mist and the trees dripped soddenly. It was a fitting end, he thought, to the dreariest day he had ever known. The morning had seen the ruin of his flowering career, cut down by his own ruthless hand, under no compulsion save that of his own senseless conscience. And the evening, as a bitter crown to the day, had seen the salt of jealousy ground into his wounds. The contrast between himself standing on the brink of indecision, wandering aimlessly from disgust to humiliation, without satisfaction in the past or hope for the future; and that other man—who had no indecision, whose hopes were half realised—made his heart heavy within him.
It was a saddened and chaotic Imrie who plodded on through the lonely streets striving to regain some fragment of the philosophy which had deserted him so utterly.
CHAPTER VII
"IF PEOPLE ONLY KNEW!"
A little after three o'clock on the afternoon of the day which first saw Judith Wynrod a newspaper proprietor, Good walked into the office of The Dispatch and asked to see Mr. Bassett, the managing editor.
"Will you be good enough to indicate the purpose of your visit on this slip," said the old pensioner at the information desk.
Good took the pencil held out to him and in a bold hand wrote: "Mr. Good wishes to see Mr. Bassett."
Cerberus smiled faintly, as if courtesy alone prevented him from totally ignoring so feeble a jest. "That will hardly suffice, Mr. Good. We have our rules, you know," he said firmly.