So to Westrea I promised to go, his invitation having been given so spontaneously and kindly. A dangerous experiment perhaps, but the temptation was too strong for me. At last I should see Nellie again, and learn how matters really stood with her. That thought threw me into a fever of excitement. To go in to hall, with the chance of meeting Halidane and having the fellow saddle his unctuous, not to say oily, presence upon me for the rest of the evening, was intolerable. So, after starting Braithwaite upon his homeward journey, I got a scratch meal at the inn, and then made my way to The Backs across bridge, and wandered in the softly deepening twilight under the trees beside the river. I tried—but alas how vainly!—to calm my excitement, and school myself into rejection alike of the wild hopes and dark forebodings which assailed me. I lost count of time, and wandered thus until the lamps were lit and the moonlight touched the stately masses of college buildings, rising pale from their lawns and gardens, on the other side of the placid slow-flowing stream. Hence it was comparatively late when, at length, I climbed the creaking, foot-worn oaken stairs leading to my rooms. Immediately on entering I saw that a letter lay upon the table. It was in Hartover’s handwriting. Trembling, I tore it open. Why should he write to me after so long a silence? Had he heard of my visit to St. James’s Palace? Of my visit to Church Lane? About Fédore surely it must be; and when I began to read I found that so indeed it was. ‘Dearest Brownlow,’—it ran—‘I have news to tell you which will astonish and at first, I am afraid, shock you. But, after a little, you will see it is right enough; and that, in honour, I could not do otherwise than I have done. For nearly two months now I have been married to Fédore.’ My head fairly spun round. Faint and dizzy, I sank into the nearest chair, and read on with staring eyes. ‘My reasons were very simple. I do not ask you to approve them; but to weigh and judge them fairly. You know the circumstances under which I came to town and joined my regiment. Parted from Her whom I loved—and whom I shall never forget, the thought of Her will always be sweet and sacred to me—I became utterly reckless. She was gone. You were gone.’ Was that a reproach, and a merited one? Whether or not, it cut me to the quick.