And Roland himself? As he sat there he was going through a mighty struggle. He had tried fair means and failed, now he would be justified in employing foul, said the tempter. If he could induce Olive surreptitiously to link her lot with his, why then, when the step was irremediable, her father would soon forgive her. The rector was the very last man to bear rancour, especially towards his favourite child. He would soon come round, and then how happy they would all be! The end in this case would amply justify the means, and then--was not all fair in love and war? No, it was not. Roland Dorrien had a code of honour of his own. Had Dr Ingelow been such a man as his own father, for instance, he would have felt abundantly justified in throwing all scruple to the winds, but now he could not do it. He had sat at this man's table and been treated by him in every respect as a trusted friend. His doors had ever been open to him to come and go as he listed, he had been admitted unreservedly and welcomed in this family circle at a time when in his own home he was a stranger. Months had passed in this pleasant, trustful intimacy, and now he felt that he would rather die than betray the confidence of this kindly, open-hearted friend, for whom, in spite of what had happened, he felt no whit less of warm regard. It would be a mean and shabby trick, the very thought of which he would strive to put far from him. "Forgive me," he said at length. "I am an unmannerly brute to talk like that. A cad, in fact." "Roland, my dear boy," answered the rector in his most affectionate tone, casting all ceremony to the winds. "Believe me, I have already forgotten it, whatever it was. Now try and face your trouble bravely-- you are not alone in it, remember. And, Roland, you will not--not attempt to see Olive alone until--at any rate until I have spoken to her. You are too honourable for that, I know." "I will not. But, Dr Ingelow, I cannot promise to give her up altogether. It is only fair to tell you that." The rector shook his head sadly. "I am afraid you must bring yourself to face facts," he replied, as they clasped hands. "Good-bye. We need not look upon each other as enemies on account of this, need we?" he added, laying an affectionate, detaining hand on the other's shoulder. "Good-bye for the present--and, God bless you!" CHAPTER TWENTY. DARKER STILL. "Things are never so bad but that they might be worse," is a clap-trap disguised beneath the gold leaf of philosophy. When a man's leg has to come off--without chloroform--it doesn't make the impending "bad quarter of an hour" a bit less redoubtable to impress upon him the indisputable fact that he _might_ have had to lose an arm as well.