As he passed through the dim and silent aisles of the store, he surveyed
them again with mixed emotions. Here he might, apparently, have been
king. But he had no very poignant regret. Another of his numerous
selves, he reflected, had committed suicide. That was the right idea:
to keep sloughing them off, throwing overboard the unreal and factitious
Gissings, paring them down until he discovered the genuine and
inalienable creature.
And so, for the second time, he made a stealthy exit from the employees'
door.
Four days later he read in the paper of old Mr. Beagle's death. There
can be no doubt about it. The merchant died of a broken heart.