Perhaps she did not care, that was worst of all; that she did not care for him, for his good name, his honour, his reputation, only for--the thought was intolerable--he started up and drank off a strong peg of whiskey; he felt that he needed a bracer. In the hopes of distracting his thoughts, he once more took up and re-read Kent-Lauriston's letter, which had arrived before dinner and lain forgotten during the excitement of the evening; and which he had found waiting to greet him, when, at the close of that dreadful interview, he had stolen away to his room without bidding anybody good-night. He remembered that he had hesitated to open it, knowing as he did that it contained a remonstrance against committing a folly, which he had already committed. He had determined to read it calmly, but it awakened within him a scathing self-examination most unsettling in its result. He recognised it as the dictum of an astute man of the world, a "_connoisseur des grandes passions_" one who knew the symptoms with unfailing accuracy. In short, the Secretary did not for a moment doubt the truth of what his friend had written; but he was equally certain that it did not apply to his own case. Miss Fitzgerald had by no means driven all other thoughts from his mind. Indeed, he realised that she had, during the last few days, held a relatively small place in his thoughts. He was not miserable when he was absent from her--he had enjoyed his talk with Madame Darcy and his walk with Lady Isabelle immensely. He had not even decided that he should ask Belle to marry him till the eleventh hour, and was not that decision due, after all, to the pity which, we are told, is akin to love, but which by itself forms such an unsatisfactory substitute? Would his friend have any trouble in winning him to himself, as he expressed it? Was he supremely happy? Was he not rather, in his heart of hearts, wishing himself well out of the whole affair? The words of Madame Darcy came back to him, doubly enforced by these contradictory data. "You do not love her. Love is blind. Love does not reason." Had it come to this, then--was he such a weak fool that he did not know his own mind; that he had proposed to a woman who existed only in his imagination; who so little resembled the real one that he had no wish to assimilate the two; that he was already regretting the step before it was half taken? What hope did that hold out for a happy future? He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. In a fit of mortified rage, he crumpled up the letter in his hand, and threw himself down among the cushions of the divan. As he lay there Kingsland entered the room. "Why," he said, "I thought you had retired."