heart so fiercely when he had seen her in the other man's arms burned now with new bright lights and infernal flickering flame tongues.
And at last, out of hell, the Onlooker reached out his hands and caught at prayer. He caught at it as a drowning man catches at a white gleam in the black of the surging sea about him—it may be a painted spar, it may be empty foam. The Onlooker prayed.
And that very evening he ran up against the Lover at the Temple Station, and he got into the same carriage with him.
He said, "Excuse me. You don't remember me?"
"I'm not likely to have forgotten you," said the Lover.
"I fear my verdict was a great blow. You look very worried, very ill. News like that is a great shock."
"It is a little unsettling," said the Lover.
"Are you still going on with your usual work?"
"Yes."
"Speaking professionally, I think you are wrong. You lessen your chances of life! Why don't you try a complete change?"
