When Francis Armour left his wife's room he did not go to his own, butquietly descended the stairs, went to the library, and sat down. Theloneliest thing in the world is to be tete-a-tete with one's conscience.A man may have a bad hour with an enemy, a sad hour with a friend, apeaceful hour with himself, but when the little dwarf, conscience,perches upon every hillock of remembrance and makes slow signs--thosestrange symbols of the language of the soul--to him, no slave upon thetread-mill suffers more.The butler came in to see if anything was required, but Armour onlygreeted him silently and waved him away. His brain was painfully alert,his memory singularly awake. It seemed that the incident of this hourhad so opened up every channel of his intelligence that all his life ranpast him in fantastic panorama, as by that illumination which comes tothe drowning man. He seemed under some strange spell. Once or twice herose, rubbed his eyes, and looked round the room--the room where as a boyhe had spent idle hours, where as a student he had been in the hands ofhis tutor, and as a young man had found recreations such as belong toambitious and ardent youth. Every corner was familiar. Nothing waschanged.