1.

　　Doctors, laying down the law in their usual confident way, tell usthat the vitality of the human body is at its lowest at two o'clockin the morning: and that it is then, as a consequence, that the mindis least able to contemplate the present with equanimity, the futurewith fortitude, and the past without regret. Every thinking man,however, knows that this is not so. The true zero hour, desolate,gloom-ridden, and specter-haunted, occurs immediately before dinnerwhile we are waiting for that cocktail. It is then that, stripped fora brief moment of our armor of complacency and self-esteem, we seeourselves as we are,--frightful chumps in a world where nothing goesright; a gray world in which, hoping to click, we merely get theraspberry; where, animated by the best intentions, we neverthelesssucceed in perpetrating the scaliest bloomers and landing our lovedones neck-deep in the gumbo.

　　So reflected Freddie Rooke, that priceless old bean, sittingdisconsolately in an arm-chair at the Drones Club about two weeksafter Jill's departure from England, waiting for his friend AlgyMartyn to trickle in and give him dinner.

　　Surveying Freddie, as he droops on his spine in the yielding leather,one is conscious of one's limitations as a writer. Gloom like hiscalls for the pen of a master. Zola could have tackled it nicely.

　　Gorky might have made a stab at it. Dostoievsky would have handled itwith relish. But for oneself the thing is too vast. One cannot wangleit. It intimidates. It would have been bad enough in any case, forAlgy Martyn was late as usual and it always gave Freddie the pip tohave to wait for dinner: but what made it worse was the fact that theDrones was not one of Freddie's clubs and so, until the blighter Algyarrived, it was impossible for him to get his cocktail. There he sat,surrounded by happy, laughing young men, each grasping a glass of thegood old mixture-as-before, absolutely unable to connect. Some ofthem, casual acquaintances, had nodded to him, waved, and gone onlowering the juice,--a spectacle which made Freddie feel much as thewounded soldier would have felt if Sir Philip Sidney, instead ofoffering him the cup of water, had placed it to his own lips anddrained it with a careless "Cheerio!" No wonder Freddie experiencedthe sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoi'sRussian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work stranglinghis father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the cityreservoir, he turns to the cupboard, only to find the vodka-bottleempty.

　　Freddie gave himself up to despondency: and, as always in these dayswhen he was mournful, he thought of Jill. Jill's sad case was acontinual source of mental anguish to him. From the first he hadblamed himself for the breaking-off of her engagement with Derek. Ifhe had not sent the message to Derek from the police-station, thelatter would never have known about their arrest, and all would havebeen well. And now, a few days ago, had come the news of herfinancial disaster, with its attendant complications.