His wife had been dead for over a year. He had hungered，he had prayed for her death. He had hated that woman （andfor how many years！） with a kind of masked ferocity. Howoften he had been tempted to kill her or to kill himself！ Howoften he had dreamed that she had run away from him orthat he had run away from her！ He had invented RussianPrinces， and Music Hall Stars， and American Billionaires withwhom she could adequately elope， and he had both loved andloathed the prospect. What unending， slow quarrels they hadtogether！ How her voice had droned pitilessly on his ears！
She in one room， he in another， and through the open doorthere rolled that unending recitation of woes and reproaches，an interminable catalogue of nothings， while he sat dumb asa fish， with a mind that smouldered or blazed. He had stoodunseen with a hammer， a poker， a razor in his hand， on tiptoeto do it. A movement， a rush， one silent rush and it was done！
He had revelled in her murder. He had caressed it， rehearsed it，relished it， had jerked her head back， and hacked， and listenedto her entreaties bubbling through blood！
And then she died！ When he stood by her bed he had wishedto taunt her， but he could not do it. He read in her eyes—Iam dying， and in a little time I shall have vanished like duston the wind， but you will still be here， and you will never seeme again—He wished to ratify that， to assure her that it wasactually so， to say that he would come home on the morrownight， and she would not be there， and that he would returnhome every night， and she would never be there. But he couldnot say it. Somehow the words， although he desired them，would not come. His arm went to her neck and settled there.
His hand caressed her hair， her cheek. He kissed her eyes， herlips， her languid hands； and the words that came were only aninfantile babble of regrets and apologies， assurances that hedid love her， that he had never loved any one before， and neverwould love any one again…
Every one who passed looked into the Café where he sat.
Every one who passed looked at him. There were men withsallow faces and wide black hats. Some had hair that flappedabout them in the wind， and from their locks one gathered，with some distaste， the spices of Araby. Some had cravats thatfluttered and fell and rose again like banners in a storm. Therewere men with severe， spade-shaped， most responsible-lookingbeards， and quizzical little eyes which gave the lie to theirhairy sedateness—eyes which had spent long years in lookingsidewards as a woman passed. There were men of every stageof foppishness—men who had spent so much time on theirmoustaches that they had only a little left for their fingernails，but their moustaches exonerated them； others who werecoated to happiness， trousered to grotesqueness， and booted tomisery. He thought—In this city the men wear their own coats，but they all wear some one else’s trousers， and their boots aresyndicated.
He saw no person who was self-intent. They were all deeplyconscious， not of themselves， but of each other. They wereall looking at each other. They were all looking at him； andhe returned the severe， or humourous， or appraising gaze ofeach with a look nicely proportioned to the passer， giving backexactly what was given to him， and no more. He did not stare，for nobody stared. He just looked and looked away， and was asmannerly as was required.
A negro went by arm in arm with a girl who was so sallowthat she was only white by courtesy. He was a bulky man， andas he bent greedily over his companion it was evident that tohim she was whiter than the snow of a single night.