In the morning Glyde, in a humble mood, drank quantities of small beer. In other words, he told his story of Sanchia, of Ingram, and of Mrs. Wilmot. He was so steered by questions from Senhouse that he came, towards the end, to see that if any one had driven his mistress into a life of bondage to Ingram it was himself and his presumptuous arm. “You must have offended her beyond expression,” he was told. “First, her fine esteem in her own spotless robe, which you have smeared with beastly blood and heat; next, her sense of reason clear as day; next, and worst, her logical faculty by which she sees it to be a law of the earth that nothing can be bought without a price. Oh, you precious young donkey! And who the mischief are you, pray, to meddle in the affairs of high ladies--you who can't manage your own better than to do with your foolish muscles what is the work of a man's heart? Love! You don't know how to spell the word. But I am getting angry again, and I don't want to do that. I'll tell you what I shall do with you. You shall stay with me here till you are well, and then you shall go to London and find Despoina--” “Do you mean Sanchia?” Glyde was still unregenerate at heart. “I mean whom I say, your mistress and mine. You are not fit to name her by any other name.” “No, no--I know it,” said the youth; “but her name is so beautiful.” “Everything about her is beautiful,” said Senhouse, “therefore see that you go to her cleansed and sweetened. Now, when you have found her you shall beg her pardon on your knees--” “Never!” said Glyde, grittily in his teeth. “On your heart's knees, you fool,” cried Senhouse, with a roar which rolled about the hills. “On the knees of your rat's heart. You shall beg her pardon on your knees for your beastly interference, presumption, mulishness, and graceless manhood; and then you shall leave her immediately, and thank God for the breath of her forgiveness. This also is important. You are not to name me who have sent you.” His eyes shone with the gleam of tears. “Never name me to her, young Glyde, for I'll tell you now that for every stripe I've dusted your jacket with you owe me forty--and you can lay on when you please.” “For I,” he continued, after a pause for breath, while Glyde stared fearfully upon him, “for I, too, have betrayed her.” They said no more at that time, but all day Glyde followed Senhouse about like a dog. In the evening of what to the undrilled youth was a hard-spent day, Senhouse unfolded his heart and talked long and eloquently of love and other mysteries of our immortal life. “The attainment of our desires,” he said, “appears to every one of us to be a Law of Nature, and so, no doubt, it is. But that is equally valid which says, 'To every man that which he is fit to enjoy.' The task of men is to reconcile the two. That once done you are whole--nay, you are holy.”