Twenty-five days later a telegram came to Conroy's rooms: 'Notice given. Waterloo again. Twenty-fourth.' That same evening he was wakened by the shudder and the sigh that told him his sentence had gone forth. Yet he reflected on his pillow that he had, in spite of lapses, snatched something like three weeks of life, which included several rides on a horse before breakfast--the hour one most craves Najdolene; five consecutive evenings on the river at Hammersmith in a tub where he had well stretched the white arms that passing crews mocked at; a game of rackets at his club; three dinners, one small dance, and one human flirtation with a human woman. More notable still, he had settled his month's accounts, only once confusing petty cash with the days of grace allowed him. Next morning he rode his hired beast in the park victoriously. He saw Miss Henschil on horse-back near Lancaster Gate, talking to a young man at the railings.
She wheeled and cantered toward him.
'By Jove! How well you look!' he cried, without salutation. 'I didn't know you rode.'
'I used to once,' she replied. 'I'm all soft now.'
They swept off together down the ride.
'Your beast pulls,' he said.
'Wa-ant him to. Gi-gives me something to think of. How've you been?' she panted. 'I wish chemists' shops hadn't red lights.'
'Have you slipped out and bought some, then?'
'You don't know Nursey. Eh, but it's good to be on a horse again! This chap cost me two hundred.'