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in September begun a new task； determined not to cross the Alps
till he should have made a good start。 To this end he returned to
a quiet corner he knew well； on the edge of the Lake of Geneva and
within sight of the towers of Chillon： a region and a view for
which he had an affection that sprang from old associations and was
capable of mysterious revivals and refreshments。 Here he lingered
late； till the snow was on the nearer hills； almost down to the
limit to which he could climb when his stint； on the shortening
afternoons； was performed。 The autumn was fine； the lake was blue
and his book took form and direction。 These felicities； for the
time； embroidered his life； which he suffered to cover him with its
mantle。 At the end of six weeks he felt he had learnt St。 George's
lesson by heart； had tested and proved its doctrine。 Nevertheless
he did a very inconsistent thing： before crossing the Alps he
wrote to Marian Fancourt。 He was aware of the perversity of this
act； and it was only as a luxury； an amusement； the reward of a
strenuous autumn； that he justified it。 She had asked of him no
such favour when； shortly before he left London； three days after
their dinner in Ennismore Gardens； he went to take leave of her。
It was true she had had no ground … he hadn't named his intention
of absence。 He had kept his counsel for want of due assurance： it
was that particular visit that was； the next thing； to settle the
matter。 He had paid the visit to see how much he really cared for
her； and quick departure； without so much as an explicit farewell；
was the sequel to this enquiry； the answer to which had created
within him a deep yearning。 When he wrote her from Clarens he
noted that he owed her an explanation （more than three months
after！） for not having told her what he was doing。
She replied now briefly but promptly； and gave him a striking piece
of news： that of the death； a week before； of Mrs。 St。 George。
This exemplary woman had succumbed； in the country； to a violent
attack of inflammation of the lungs … he would remember that for a
long time she had been delicate。 Miss Fancourt added that she
believed her husband overwhelmed by the blow； he would miss her too
terribly … she had been everything in life to him。 Paul Overt； on
this； immediately wrote to St。 George。 He would from the day of
their parting have been glad to remain in communication with him；
but had hitherto lacked the right excuse for troubling so busy a
man。 Their long nocturnal talk came back to him in every detail；
but this was no bar to an expression of proper sympathy with the
head of the profession； for hadn't that very talk made it clear
that the late accomplished lady was the influence that ruled his
life？ What catastrophe could be more cruel than the extinction of
such an influence？ This was to be exactly the tone taken by St。
George in answering his young friend upwards of a month later。 He
made no allusion of course to their important discussion。 He spoke
of his wife as frankly and generously as if he had quite forgotten
that occasion； and the feeling of deep bereavement was visible in
his words。 〃She took everything off my hands … off my mind。 She
carried on our life with the greatest art； the rarest devotion； and
I was free； as few men can have been； to drive my pen； to shut
myself up with my trade。 This was a rare service … the highest she
could have rendered me。 Would I could have acknowledged it more
fitly！〃
A certain bewilderment； for our hero； disengaged itself from these
remarks： they struck him as a contradiction； a retractation；
strange on the part of a man who hadn't the excuse of witlessness。
He had certainly not expected his correspondent to rejoice in the
death of his wife； and it was perfectly in order that the rupture
of a tie of more than twenty years should have left him sore。 But
if she had been so clear a blessing what in the name of consistency
had the dear man meant by turning him upside down that night … by
dosing him to that degree； at the most sensitive hour of his life；
with the doctrine of renunciation？ If Mrs。 St。 George was an
irreparable loss； then her husband's inspired advice had been a bad
joke and renunciation was a mistake。 Overt was on the point of
rushing back to London to show that； for his part； he was perfectly
willing to consider it so； and he went so far as to take the
manuscript of the first chapters of his new book out of his table…
drawer； to insert it into a pocket of his portmanteau。 This led to
his catching a glimpse of certain pages he hadn't looked at for
months； and that accident； in turn； to his being struck with the
high promise they revealed … a rare result of such retrospections；
which it was his habit to avoid as much as possible： they usually
brought home to him that the glow of composition might be a purely
subjective and misleading emotion。 On this occasion a certain
belief in himself disengaged itself whimsically from the serried
erasures of his first draft； making him think it best after all to
pursue his present trial to the end。 If he could write as well
under the rigour of privation it might be a mistake to change the
conditions before that spell had spent itself。 He would go back to
London of course； but he would go back only when he should have
finished his book。 This was the vow he privately made； restoring
his manuscript to the table…drawer。 It may be added that it took
him a long time to finish his book； for the subject was as
difficult as it was fine； and he was literally embarrassed by the
fulness of his notes。 Something within him warned him that he must
make it supremely good … otherwise he should lack； as regards his
private behaviour； a handsome excuse。 He had a horror of this
deficiency and found himself as firm as need be on the question of
the lamp and the file。 He crossed the Alps at last and spent the
winter； the spring； the ensuing summer； in Italy； where still； at
the end of a twelvemonth； his task was unachieved。 〃Stick to it …
see it through〃： this general injunction of St。 George's was good
also for the particular case。 He applied it to the utmost； with
the result that when in its slow order the summer had come round
again he felt he had given all that was in him。 This time he put
his papers into his portmanteau； with the address of his publisher
attached； and took his way northward。
He had been absent from London for two years … two years which；
seeming to count as more； had made such a difference in his own
life … through the production of a novel far stronger； he believed；
than 〃Ginistrella〃 … that he turned out into Piccadilly； the
morning after his arrival； with a vague expectation of changes； of
finding great things had happened。 But there were few
transformations in Piccadilly … only three or four big red houses
where there had been low black ones … and the brightness of the end
of June peeped through the rusty railings of the Green Park and
glittered in the varnish of the rolling carriages as he had seen it
in other； more cursory Junes。 It was a greeting he appreciated； it
seemed friendly and pointed； added to the exhilaration of his
finished book； of his having his own country and the huge
oppressive amusing city that suggested everything； that contained
everything； under his hand again。 〃Stay at home and do things here
… do subjects we can measure；〃 St。 George had said； and now it
struck him he should ask nothing better than to stay at home for
ever。 Late in the afternoon he took his way to Manchester Square；
looking out for a number he hadn't forgotten。 Miss Fancourt；
however； was not at home； so that he turned rather dejectedly from
the door。 His movement brought him face to face with a gentleman
just approaching it and recognised on another glance as Miss
Fancourt's father。 Paul saluted this personage； and the General
returned the greeting with his customary good manner … a manner so
good； however； that you could never tell whether it meant he placed
you。 The disappointed caller felt the impulse to address him；
then； hesitating； became both aware of having no particular remark
to make； and convinced that though the old soldier remembered him
he remembered him wrong。 He therefore went his way without
computing the irresistible effect his own evident recognition would
have on the General； who never neglected a chance to gossip。 Our
young man's face was expressive； and observation seldom let it
pass。 He hadn't taken ten steps before he heard himself called
after with a friendly semi…articulate 〃Er … I beg your pardon！〃 He
turned round and the General； smiling at him from the porch； said：
〃Won't you come in？ I won't leave you the advantage of me！〃 Paul
declined to come in； and then felt regret； for Miss Fancourt； so
late in the afternoon； might return at any moment。 But her father
gave him no se