Colonel Dacre lifted it to his lips once more, and set it down half empty this time. He had fasted all day, and felt strangely excited by what he had taken, although it would have had no effect under different circumstances. Ordering the table to be cleared, he lighted a cigar, and began to smoke it slowly, his somber glance fixed on the open window, while he listened for every sound. Presently the church clock struck twelve solemnly out in the darkness, making him start in his chair, and recalling him to the fact that his cigar had gone out. He tossed it through the window, and lighted another. He was in that nervous, overwrought state when his whole body seemed full of pulses, and his temples kept up a measured, oppressive beat. Colonel Dacre fancied he knew who mine host’s other guest would be; but he had sworn to himself only to listen for his step. Though he was calm now, and could trust himself, it would be a terrible risk to see the face of Lady Gwendolyn’s lover, lest they should meet again one day when he was not master of himself. Presently a step came along the road--a firm, brisk step, which had a cheerful sound--the step of a happy lover, who had brought away tender memories with him, and still feels the sweetness of a timid parting kiss lingering on his lips. Colonel Dacre sat back firmly in his chair, and covered his eyes. But when the door opened he glanced up mechanically, and there stood the man he had sworn not to look upon for his soul’s sake. The other drew back at once, with a hurried apology for his mistake, and a courteous bow; but Colonel Dacre knew that wherever they might meet he should recognize him again, and that the cool, proud face, with its insolent beauty, would be from henceforth imprinted on his brain. CHAPTER V. WOMAN’S WAYS. Of course it is very comfortable to be a philosopher. When people have once succeeded in persuading themselves that it is as easy to reason as to feel, it is wonderful how smoothly life ends. As Colonel Dacre sat in the little inn parlor that night, he tried hard to attain that enviable state of mind, and to be able to say, with a shrug of the shoulder: “If she be not fair for me, What care I how fair she be.” But it would not do. He did care, and so much, that he could have dashed his head against the wall for very rage and misery. But there was one thing he could not understand, and that was why Lady Teignmouth took so much interest in seeing him disenchanted. She must have sent him to Turoy, knowing quite well whom he would meet there, and enjoying the thought of his pain. It was strange to find a young and handsome woman so cruel--and he had never harmed her--that she should take pleasure in dealing him such a blow. But for some reason she was his enemy; and as he began to divine how utterly unscrupulous she was, the idea was not an agreeable one, by any means.