I don't know how he got there, but a woman who would not admire him had something to do with it.

No sun after rain had come into that tragic life.

To the water that had ended it his white face seemed to be saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." It was the old story of a faithless woman.

He had given her his heart, and she had played with it.

For her sake he had striven to be famous; for her alone had he toiled through dreary years in London, the goal her lap, in which he should one day place his book--a poor, trivial little work, he knew (yet much admired by the best critics).
Never had his thoughts wandered for one instant of that time to another woman; he had been as faithful in life as in death; and now she came to the edge of the pool and peered down at his staring eyes and laughed.
He had got thus far when a shout from Corp brought him, dazed, to his feet.