Faithfully yours,
JOSEPH WYBROW. [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]
CHAPTER VI.
THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.
ON the tenth morning, dating from the dispatch of Father Benwell’s last letter to Rome, Penrose was writing in the study at Ten Acres Lodge, while Romayne sat at the other end of the room, looking listlessly at a blank sheet of paper, with the pen lying idle beside it. On a sudden he rose, and, snatching up paper and pen, threw them irritably into the fire.
“Don’t trouble yourself to write any longer,” he said to Penrose. “My dream is over. Throw my manuscripts into the waste paper basket, and never speak to me of literary work again.”
“Every man devoted to literature has these fits of despondency,” Penrose answered. “Don’t think of your work. Send for your horse, and trust to fresh air and exercise to relieve your mind.”
Romayne barely listened. He turned round at the fireplace and studied the reflection of his face in the glass.
“I look worse and worse,” he said thoughtfully to himself.
It was true. His flesh had fallen away; his face had withered and whitened; he stooped like an old man. The change for the worse had been steadily proceeding from the time when he left Vange Abbey.