Rudyard Kipling 173 pictured her being won by another man, stronger than himself. His imagination, the keener for the dark background it worked against, spared him no single detail that might send him raging up and down the studio, to stumble over the stove that seemed to be in four places at once. Worst of all, tobacco would not taste in the darkness. The arrogance of the man had disappeared, and in its place were settled despair that Torpenhow knew, and blind passion that Dick confided to his pillow at night. The intervals between the paroxysms were filled with intolerable waiting and the weight of intolerable darkness. “Come out into the Park,” said Torpenhow. “You haven’t stirred out since the beginning of things.” “What’s the use? There’s no movement in the dark; and, besides,” — he paused irresolutely at the head of the stairs, — “something will run over me.” “Not if I’m with you. Proceed gingerly.” The roar of the streets filled Dick with nervous terror, and he clung to Torpenhow’s arm. “Fancy having to feel for a gutter with your foot!” he said petulantly, as he turned into the Park. “Let’s curse God and die.” “Sentries are forbidden to pay unauthorized compliments. By Jove, there are the Guards!” Dick’s figure straightened. “Let’s get near ’em. Let’s go in and look. Let’s get on the grass and run. I can smell the trees.” “Mind the low railing. That’s all right!” Torpenhow kicked out a tuft of grass with his heel. “Smell that,” he said. “Isn’t it good?” Dick sniffed luxuriously. “Now pick up your feet and run.” They approached as near to the regiment as was possible. The clank of bayonets being unfixed made Dick’s nostrils quiver. “Let’s get nearer. They’re in column, aren’t they?” “Yes. How did you know?”