I When Mrs. Tams brought in his early cup of tea that Easter Saturday afternoon, Louis had no project whatever in his head, and he was excessively, exasperatingly¹ bored. A quarter of an hour earlier he had finished reading the novel which had been mitigating² the worst tedium³ of his shamed convalescence⁴, and the state of his mind was not improved by the fact that in his opinion the author of the novel had failed to fulfil clear promises—had, in fact, abused his trust. On the other hand, he felt very appreciably⁵ stronger, and his self-esteem was heightened by the complete correctness of his toilet. On that morning he had dressed himself with art and care for the first time since the accident. He enjoyed a little dandyism; dandified, he was a better man; the "fall" of a pair of trousers over the knee, the gloss⁶ of white wristbands, just showing beneath the new cloth of a well-cut sleeve—these phenomena⁷ not only pleased him but gave him confidence. And herein was the sole bright spot of his universe when Mrs. Tams entered.
 
He was rather curt⁸ with Mrs. Tams because she was two minutes late; for two endless minutes he had been cultivating the resentment⁹ of a man neglected and forgotten by every one of those whose business in life it is to succour, humour, and soothe¹⁰ him.
 
Mrs. Tams comprehended his mood with precision, and instantly. She hovered¹¹ round him like a hen, indeed like a whole flock of hens, and when he savagely¹² rebuffed her she developed from a flock of hens into a flight of angels.
 
"Missis said as I was to tell you as she'd gone to see Mr. Julian Maldon, sir," said Mrs. Tams, in the way of general gossip.
 
Louis made no sign.
 
"Her didna say how soon her'd be back. I was for going out, sir, but I'll stop in, sir, and willing—"
 
"What time are you supposed to go out?" Louis demanded, in a tone less inimical than his countenance¹³.
 
"By rights, now, sir," said Mrs. Tams, looking backward through the open door at the lobby clock.
 
"Well," Louis remarked with liveliness, "if you aren't outside this house in one minute, in sixty seconds, I shall put you out, neck and crop."
 
Mrs. Tams smiled. His amiability¹⁴ was returning, he had done her the honour to tease her. She departed, all her "things" being ready in the kitchen. Even before she had gone Louis went quickly upstairs, having drunk less than half a cup of tea, and with extraordinary eagerness plunged¹⁵ into the bedroom and unlocked his private drawer. He both hoped and feared that the money which he had bestowed¹⁶ there after Julian's historic visit would have vanished. It had vanished.
 
The shock was unpleasant, but the discovery itself had a pleasant side, because it justified¹⁷ the theory which had sprung complete into his mind when he learnt where Rachel had gone, and also because it denuded¹⁸ Rachel of all reasonable claim to consideration. He had said to himself: "She has gone off to return half of that money to Julian—that's what it is. And she's capable of returning all of it to him!" ... And she had done so. And she had not consulted him, Louis. He, then, was a nobody—zero in the house! She had deliberately¹⁹ filched²⁰ the money from him, and to accomplish her purpose she had abstracted his keys, which he had left in his pocket. She must have stolen the notes several days before, perhaps a week before, when he was really seriously ill. She had used the keys and restored them to his pocket. Astounding²¹ baseness!
 
He murmured: "This finishes it. This really does finish it."
 
He was immensely righteous as he stood alone in the bedroom in front of the rifled drawer. He was more than righteous—he was a martyr²². He had done absolutely nothing that was wrong. He had not stolen money; he had not meant to steal; the more he examined his conduct, the more he was convinced that it had been throughout unexceptionable, whereas the conduct of Rachel ...! At every point she had sinned. It was she, not he, who had burnt Mrs. Maldon's hoard²³. Was it not monstrous²⁴ that a woman should be so careless as to light a fire without noticing that a bundle of notes lay on the top of the coal? Besides, what affair was it of hers, anyway? It concerned himself, Mrs. Maldon, and Julian, alone. But she must needs interfere²⁵. She had not a penny to bless herself with, but he had magnanimously married her; and his reward was her inexcusable interference in his private business.
 
His accident was due solely²⁶ to his benevolence²⁷ for her. If he had not been wheeling a bicycle procured²⁸ for her, and on his way to buy her a new bicycle, the accident would never have occurred. But had she shown any gratitude²⁹? None. It was true that he had vaguely³⁰ authorized³¹ her to return half of the money replaced by the contrite³² Julian; but no date for doing so had been fixed³³, and assuredly she had no pretext³⁴ whatever for dealing³⁵ with all of it. That she should go to Julian Maldon with either the half or the whole of the money without previously³⁶ informing him and obtaining the ratification³⁷ of his permission was simply scandalous. And that she should sneakingly search his pockets for keys, commit a burglary in his drawer, and sneakingly put the keys back was outrageous³⁸, infamous³⁹, utterly⁴⁰ intolerable.
 
He said, "I'll teach you a lesson, my lady, once for all."
 
Then he went downstairs. The kitchen was empty; Mrs. Tams had gone. But between the kitchen and the parlour he changed his course, and ran upstairs again to the drawer, which he pulled wide open. At the back of it there ought to have been an envelope containing twenty pounds in notes, balance of an advance payment from old Batchgrew. The envelope was there with its contents. Rachel had left the envelope. "Good of her!" he ejaculated with sarcasm⁴¹. He put the money in his pocket-book, and descended⁴² to finish his tea, which he drank up excitedly.
 
A dubious⁴³ scheme was hypnotizing him. He was a man well acquainted with the hypnotism of dubious schemes. He knew all the symptoms. He fought against the magic influence, and then, as always, yielded himself deliberately and voluptuously⁴⁴ to it. He would go away. He would not wait; he would go at once, in a moment. She deserved as much, if not more. He knew not where he should go; a thousand reasons against going assailed⁴⁵ him; but he would go. He must go. He could no longer stand, even for a single hour, her harshness, her air of moral superiority, her adamantine obstinacy⁴⁶. He missed terribly her candid⁴⁷ worship of him, to which he had grown accustomed and which had become nearly a necessity of his existence. He could not live with an eternal critic; the prospect⁴⁸ was totally inconceivable. He wanted love, and he wanted admiring love, and without it marriage was meaningless to him, a mere⁴⁹ imprisonment⁵⁰.
 
So he would go. He could not and would not pack; to pack would distress⁵¹ him and bore him; he would go as he was. He could buy what he needed. The shops—his kind of shops—were closed, and would remain closed until Tuesday. Nevertheless, he would go. He could buy the indispensable at Faulkner's establishment on the platform at Knype railway-station, conveniently opposite the Five Towns Hotel. He had determined⁵² to go to the Five Towns Hotel that night. He had no immediate⁵³ resources beyond the twenty pounds, but he would telegraph to Batchgrew, who ad not yet transferred to him the inheritance, to pay money into his bank early on Tuesday; if he were compelled to draw a cheque he would cross it, and then it could not possibly be presented before Wednesday morning.
 
At all costs he would go. His face was still plastered; but he would go, and he would go far, no matter where! The chief thing was to go. The world was calling him. The magic of the dubious scheme held him fast. And in all other respects he was free—free as impulse. He would go. He was not yet quite recovered, not quite strong.... Yes, he was all right; he was very strong! And he would go.
 
He put on his hat and his spring overcoat. Then he thought of the propriety⁵⁴ of leaving a letter behind him—not for Rachel's sake, but to insist on his own dignity and to spoil hers. He wrote the letter, read it through with satisfaction, and quitted the house, shutting the door cheerfully, but with a trembling hand. Lest he might meet Rachel on her way home he went up the lane instead of down, and, finding himself near the station, took a train to Knype—travelling first class. The glorious estate of a bachelor was his once more.
 
 
II
The Five Towns Hotel stood theoretically in the borough⁵⁵ of Hanbridge, but in fact it was in neither Hanbridge nor Knype, but "opposite Knype station," on the quiet side of Knype station, far away from any urban traffic; the gross roar of the electric trams running between Knype and Hanbridge could not be heard from the great portico⁵⁶ of the hotel. It is true that the hotel primarily existed on its proximity⁵⁷ to the railway centre of the Five Towns. But it had outgrown⁵⁸ its historic origin, and would have moderately flourished even had the North Staffordshire railway been annihilated⁵⁹. By its sober grandeur⁶⁰ and its excellent cooking it had taken its place as the first hotel in the district. It had actually no rival. Heroic, sublime⁶¹ efforts had been made in the centre of Hanbridge to overthrow⁶² the pre-eminence of the Five Towns Hotel. The forlorn result of one of these efforts—so immense was it!—had been bought by the municipality and turned into a Town Hall—supreme instance of the Five Towns' habit of "making things do!" No effort succeeded. Men would still travel from the ends of the Five Towns to the bar, the billiard-rooms, the banqueting-halls of the Five Towns Hotel, where every public or semi-public ceremonial that included conviviality⁶³ was obliged to happen if it truly respected itself.
 
The Five Towns Hotel had made fortunes, and still made them. It was large and imposing⁶⁴ and sombre. The architect, who knew his business, had designed staircases, corridors, and accidental alcoves⁶⁵ on the scale of a palace; so that privacy amid publicity⁶⁶ could always be found within its walls. It was superficially old-fashioned, and in reality modern. It had a genuine chef, with sub-chefs, good waiters whose sole weakness was linguistic⁶⁷, and an apartment of carven oak with a vast counterfeit⁶⁸ eye that looked down on you from the ceiling. It was ready for anything—a reception to celebrate the nuptials⁶⁹ of a maid, a lunch to a Cabinet Minister with an axe⁷⁰ to grind in the district, or a sale by auction⁷¹ of house-property with wine ad libitum to encourage bids.
 
But its chief social use was perhaps as a retreat for men who were tired of a world inhabited by two sexes. Sundry⁷² of the great hotels of Britain have forgotten this ancient function, and are as full of fril............