I walked all the way back to Clapham thinking deeply. Financially I was evidently out of danger for life, and I had good warrant for dreaming of myself at the head of Mr. Gascoyne’s firm. It was proof of how entirely the Gascoyne coronet had become an obsession with me, that the prospect of a permanent income, with wealth, even, in the perspective of middle life, did not in any way suggest that I should relinquish the glittering prize on which I had set my heart. Perhaps if Mr. Gascoyne’s offer had come before my first success I might have abandoned my purpose, but it would have been obviously absurd to burden I had almost said my conscience—so strong is the habit of conventional thought—with a murder abortively. I could not help smiling ironically on recalling Mr. Gascoyne’s evident liking for me. According to all rules of accepted psychology I should have had something unpleasant in my personality which he should at once have detected. It was extraordinarily remiss on the part of instinct that it should not have been so. Grahame Hallward came in to see me that evening and was overjoyed at my news. He was evidently impressed when he learned that it was my relationship to the Gascoyne family which had secured me such an advantageous situation. “So after all, Israel, what you used to tell me was true.” “Did you ever doubt it?” “Not since the day you gave me your word of honour that it was so.” It may appear strange, but I have always been singularly fastidious about my word of honour. Grahame then broke to me some news which came as a staggering blow. Sibella was engaged to Lionel Holland. “The one thing I really like about Holland,” he concluded, “is the way he has stuck to Sibella.” I could not simulate indifference, and Grahame saw that his announcement had been a shock to me. I stood looking out on the little garden with its soot-begrimed walls which the sunset had drenched in scarlet, trying to control the tempest of feeling which surged within me. Grahame understood, and came over, putting his arm round my neck. “I am so sorry, Israel. I quite understand. Really, I’d sooner it were you.” I smiled somewhat bitterly. Grahame’s preference for me was hardly a consolation, fond as I was of him. “I’ll come over on Sunday,” I said.