Two hours later, and he is on his way to London. Every familiar landmark is out of eight, but imagination carries him back. Had he known what fate held in store for him, was it possible that that stormy interview might never have taken place? The temptation would have been great. Yesterday, at that hour, life had looked very fair, very promising to him, and now, in less than twenty-four hours, he had lost his inheritance--his love--and his means of existence. And now how light seem the first obstructions which lay in his road yesterday, compared with this last terrible disaster! His renunciation of his birthright--the rector's opposition--now appear to him as very trifles. The first he had made up his mind to--the second could in time have been got over--but now? Love was a luxury he could not afford to indulge in--even life itself must henceforth be dragged out in labour and sorrow and desolation, that is, should he ultimately decide that it is worth dragging on at all on such terms. For now, of course, he must give up Olive, release her from all in the shape of a promise or understanding. It might be years and years before he could even keep himself decently, how then could he in honour hold her bound to him, condemn her to spend the best and brightest years of her life in weary waiting; and for what? For a broken, disappointed man, utterly without prospects and without hopes. Would she grieve for him? At first she would suffer--suffer acutely, he knew; but her bright, sunny spirits would carry her through, and she would--well, in time, forget him. And the unfortunate man almost groaned aloud as he leaned in the corner of the railway carriage, his eyes strained and distended upon the ceaseless downpour without, and the sodden landscape lying beneath its lowering veil of ashen cloud. There is as a rule something exasperating about the way in which our friends take our misfortunes. If we are of a morbidly sensitive disposition they affect a facial elongation and a tone of dismal sympathy; if, on the other hand, we are accustomed to present a careless front to the world, they overwhelm us with a cheerful light-heartedness which strikes us as brutally callous--as though, indeed, we could look for anything else in a thoroughly self-seeking world. "Every man for himself, and devil take the hindermost." Are you in the latter category? "Awfully sorry, my dear fellow--only wish I could help you-- but--well, perhaps you will find ranking among His Satanic Majesty's acquisitions not quite such an uncomfortable berth as you think--and then, you know, you're sure to get out of it soon--something's sure to turn up. Well--ta-ta--old chap, sorry I can't wait--" And the world rolls on. Roland was conscious of a latent feeling of resentment as he noted the comfortable and even light-hearted expression on his friend's face. "Looks as if the fellow hadn't a care in the world, damn it," was his mental comment.