She might pardon. Yes. She was the sort of nature that would pardon. How might that help their future together? He knew that there could be no such thing as a future together for them. He hardly wished it. His passion of pity and remorse was quite untinged with any passion of desire. He thought of Virgie as of a saint, a creature apart, something to be rescued from himself, if such an end could possibly be compassed. If he spoke to her, if he begged forgiveness, he would have to confess his own late action. He would have to say: "I am such a cad, so lost to any sense of honour, that I first assured you of the safety of your private correspondence, and then deliberately read it." He could not do that. To one emotion of the human soul this man had been for years a stranger--tenderness. The first invasion of his breast by the new-comer was torture. He had not wept since he could remember. Now his lashes were thick with the drops which the pathos of Virginia wrung from his unwilling spirit. He contemplated her as a man may study the outstanding merits of his patron saint, seeing her inner and her outward loveliness. Her reticence--the way in which she concealed from her mother all that he had made her bear! She made no complaint, left herself almost completely out of sight, was only passionately anxious for reassurance, to be consoled by the knowledge that her sacrifice had not been in vain for _them_! Pity flooded him. When he had been walking a long way he became aware that he was sobbing audibly. This pain of unavailing compassion was maddening. What could he do? He had humiliated this rare creature, laid rough hands upon her, borne her off far from every one she loved. Yes, incredible though it seemed, she actually loved that mother--that trivial wanton upon whom he himself had lavished all that was best in him during the long, fruitless years that the locust had eaten. Frustration--misunderstanding--injustice--and helpless regret! This is life, and the old Greeks knew it. He thought of the majestic dramas of wrong and passion and irretrievable disaster. He thought of Clytemnestra and Electra. They sound crude to us, the ancient stories--crude and bloody. We do not slay our husbands with axes in these days. Virginia Sheringham had not, in act, been an unfaithful wife; but by her neglect, her lightness, her extravagance and selfishness, she had ruined her husband financially, had contributed to his early death.... ... And she had handed over her daughter to Gaunt as calmly as Clytemnestra handed over Electra to the swine-herd. Human nature--ancient--modern! The setting different, the actions different, the motives eternally the same. * * * * * It was nearly two o'clock when, weary and footsore, Gaunt let himself in with his latch-key, through the door left purposely unlocked by Hemming, who was wholly astonished at finding that his master was out of doors when it came to shutting-up time.