I am leaving you some cash for your funds. Spend it as you think best.

EDWARD.”

Yes, that was all right. He put it back in the suitcase and closed the lid. Should he lock it? No. That would only make extra trouble.

On the dressing-table lay the card of the man he’d been to see yesterday. The psycho-analyst. Somebody had talked about him at a party at Mary’s. He was wonderful. The best man in Europe. Had had great success with cases of shell-shock. Edward had thought: Perhaps he could make me sleep.

But, of course, it had been just like all the others. A darkened room. A man in cuffs. Questions about early childhood. There was a man Edward had been to see years ago, just after the War, who’d elicited with great triumph that once or twice, in 1917, Edward had as good as run away. He’d faked attacks of rheumatism, got several days’ sick-leave. “And so, you see,” the bright little doctor had explained, “we’re at the root of the whole trouble at last. Subconsciously, you’ve never forgiven yourself. Now you must try to look at this reasonably. Think of your splendid War record. Everyone must have periods of relapse. We aren’t made of iron. There’s no disgrace at all. None at all. Under the circumstances, it was really quite natural.” “Under the circumstances,” Edward had replied, “I’m willing to bet they wouldn’t have got you into one of those bloody machines at the point of the bayonet.”

Yesterday, the doctor had been very hopeful. It seemed to him, he said, a perfectly plain case. Yes, thought Edward, and it’ll be plainer still tomorrow morning.

And now he opened a drawer. Took out his leather collar-box. Undid the strap. The little automatic lay within a coil of collars. It flashed in the light. Edward took it out, weighing it in his hand. It was bloody small. Again he mistrusted it. Surely it couldn’t fail? Not if I’m careful. But he wished he had his Service revolver. That would have made a good old mess.

Standing in front of the mirror, opening his lips, pressing the stunted muzzle against the roof of his mouth, he posed. That was right. No, tilt it back a little. Must be very careful not to point it too far forward. He swayed. The blood was pounding in his ears. I wish I wasn’t so drunk. No, better do it lying down. I shall be steadier.

Lurching slightly, he moved towards the bed. As he sat down he became aware of his coat. A pity to mess a good overcoat. He took it off, dropped it across a chair. Now. He sat down again, sank back heavily. Lay staring a moment at the ceiling. Raised the pistol to his mouth.