His cheeks were wet, and the knowledge of that was comforting, as though it guaranteed the genuineness of his sacrifice.

He lingered a little in the rooms below, to pack all the cigars he had, some papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette box, a Ruff's Guide.

Then, mixing himself a stiff whisky and soda, and lighting a cigarette, he stood hesitating before a photograph of his two girls, in a silver frame.

It belonged to Winifred.
'Never mind,' he thought; 'she can get another taken, and I can't!' He slipped it into the valise.

Then, putting on his hat and overcoat, he took two others, his best malacca cane, an umbrella, and opened the front door.