“Call me a fool, an idiot, what you will; I could not do it. I can only compare my feeling to what Livingstone says he felt when he found himself face to face with a lion. He stood staring in the lion's eyes, unable to move.” “She must have thought your letter a practical joke. I wonder what she did think.” “I wrote explaining the unfortunate circumstances as well as I could, and telling her I would come the following night.” “Did you go?” “Yes.” “Did you speak to her?” “Yes.” “And she wouldn't speak?” “She passed on with her maid, but I didn't lose hope until she married. It was always a sort of sad pleasure to go to the theatre to see her. I used to live at the Manor House for two or three months at a time, saving up my money so as to be able to make her some nice present. I wished her to remember me, although she would not speak to me. No one came to the Manor House; there was nothing to do except to read the paper and smoke my pipe. I was sick of my life, and I counted the days that would have to pass till I saw her again--only thirty more days, only nineteen days, only one more week--so I used to count, marking off each day in an almanac, until one day I read the announcement of her marriage; then I knew all hope was at an end. I went mad that night and rushed out of the house, and I should have drowned myself had I not fainted. When I came to, I was weak and delirious, and wandered along the beach, not knowing where I was going. Some fishermen brought me home. My sisters were at school at the time. I believe I was very near dying. I fainted three times one afternoon. I used to lie on the sofa and cry for hours. She married a stockbroker. I believe she didn't care for him at all. Then she died. She was buried in Kensal Green. Whenever I am in London I go and see her grave.” “This is awfully sad.” “Yes; it ruined my life. I never had any luck. Things always went wrong with me.” “I should like to see those letters.” “I haven't got copies. I didn't keep a letter-book in those days. Let's talk of something else. I have some news. I am going in for breeding race-horses.” “What do you mean?” “What I say. I have calculated it all out, and I find I shall make from fifteen to twenty per cent, on my money.” “By breeding race-horses! And where are you going to breed them?” “You know those stables on the Portslade Road where the veterinary surgeon used to live? I am going to take that place. The rent is three hundred pounds a year; there are fifty acres of pasture, and stabling for thirty horses. The dwelling-house is not a very aristocratic-looking place, but it will do for the present; when I begin to make money I shall go in for alterations. You can't do everything at once.” “You do astonish me. And where are you going to get the money to do all this? You will require at least twenty thousand pounds capital.”