After a moment he tried to say to himself that these solemn thoughts were inappropriate, that after all it was not much of a matter--to please a dying woman, whom he had been supposed to love once--to give her a little pleasure, poor soul! a little poor mimicry of pleasure on the day of her death; where was there a man so hard-hearted that would not do that? And then he had not any time to think; if he were to fulfil this miserable appointment, he must do what was necessary at once. He rose and got his bank-book out of its drawer and looked over it carefully, calculating how much he had. He had gone over the calculation so often, enough for the wedding trip which Grace and he had arranged to make, and in which, at least, he felt that her money must not be touched. He had enough for that and to pay a few little debts, those little foolish things that accumulate without thinking--enough to wind up everything honourably and start fair. He seemed to be tearing the heart out of his breast when he tore out the cheque which he must presently pay for a special licence--a licence! to marry, Heaven help him! to marry: he who was the bridegroom of Grace Goodheart, his name already publicly linked with hers. The horror of these names and words gave him each a new sting and stab; but what were words in comparison with the thing which he was about to do? He set out presently, pale, with his eyes red like those of a midnight reveller, his face haggard with misery, with want of rest and food and sleep, and got a cab and drove to the place where the licence had to be procured. That done, he turned his face again to the monotonous, endless streets, the dismal, shabby quarter where his business was. Finding he had a little time to spare, he dismissed the cab, and walked and lost himself in the fathomless maze, and arrived late at the house. The young woman, Matilda, was standing at the door looking out for him, the youth who brought the message stood within the area rails, the mother, with the blind a little polled aside in the room above, was looking out too. There was a ray of pleasure and welcome when he appeared. ‘I knew as you’d come,’ cried Matilda, ‘and so did she: but mother was frightened a bit, not knowing you, Ol--Mr. Wentworth like her and me--’ Oliver grew sick as he stepped into the narrow passage. The half-sound of his own name, which she had not ventured to pronounce fully, seemed to open another vista before him. He would be Oliver to this woman, too--a member of the family. He went in, scarcely knowing where he went. In the parlour was the clergyman, who met him severely, saying that he had been kept waiting for nearly half-an-hour. ‘And my time is precious; not like that of an idler.’ He was a severe young man in the High Church uniform, thin and meagre with overwork and earnestness. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘that you have made up your mind to do justice to your victim at the last.’ ‘My victim!’ said Oliver.