So it was in an intense sense of mortification that his wounded feelings expressed themselves, and it was an entirely new experience to him. Throughout all the years of his manhood he had been praised and honored, served with the greatest consideration, and almost implicitly obeyed. He had never been in any society he considered more noble or more distinguished than his own. Yet undoubtedly Lady Cramer had been ashamed of his presence. He recalled the expressions on her face, the tones of real or pretended boredom in her voice, all the pretty coquetries of her eyes and hands, and all her graceful efforts to bewitch the Duke, and with a scornful laugh muttered, "She thought I did not understand her double game. She thought me a fool, and made a plaything of my love." And then he uttered some words which a minister should not use, and which a woman does not care to write. Now, mortified feeling becomes hatred in passionate natures, and ridicule or scorn in cold natures. It tended to hatred with Ian. He had been so long accustomed to adulation and reverence that he could not endure the memory of the covert slights he had felt compelled to ignore. And it was not long ere he became furious at himself for not boldly taking his position as Lady Cramer's future husband. He told himself that, even if there had been a scene there and then, a man would have been present, and to him he could have made explanations, but now what could he do but suffer? For hours he tormented and humiliated himself with the certainty that Lady Cramer was ashamed of condescending to his love, and that she had represented their acquaintance as arising from a necessary interference between her stepson and the minister's daughter. He knew exactly how she would represent the subject; he could tell almost the words she would use, and this mean, underhanded denial of himself hurt every nerve of his consciousness like a physical wound. Indeed, the suffering was greater, for a man may forgive a thrust from a sword, but a slap in the face! No! And Lady Cramer's treatment of her betrothed lover had been a decided slap in the face. He told himself passionately that he would never forgive it. With this mortifying experience he sat until daylight waned, then he went to the office and asked if there were any letters for him. There was one from Marion, which he laid aside; there was none from Lady Cramer. Then his aching disappointment revealed to him that, in spite of his anger, he had been expecting a propitiating note, and perhaps a renewal of her invitation to dinner. For in this early stage of his wrath all his despairing thoughts were peopled with the phantoms of his love and his desires.