The lies sprang in ready succession from his brain at the critical moment, without any other preparation than the emergency--as lies did with Mark Ashburn; till lately he had hoped that the truth might come, and he loathed himself now for this fresh piece of treachery, but it had saved him for the present, and he could not abandon it. 'I thought it would at least have been safe with you,' said Holroyd, 'if you--no, my dear fellow, I didn't mean to reproach you. I can see how cut up you are about it; and, after all, it--it was only a rejected manuscript--the girl only hastened its course a little. Carlyle rewrote his work; but then I'm not Carlyle. We won't say anything any more about it, eh, old fellow? It's only one dream over.' Mark was seized with a remorse which almost drove him to confess all and take the consequences; but Holroyd had sunk back to his position by the window again, and there was a fixed frown on his face which, although it only arose from painful thought, effectually deterred Mark from speaking. He felt now that everything depended on Caffyn. He sat looking furtively at the other now and then, and thinking what terrible reproaches those firm lips might utter; how differently the sad, kind eyes might regard him before long, and once more he longed for a railroad crash which would set him free from his tangled life. The journey ended at last, and they drove to South Audley Street. Vincent was very silent; in spite of his philosophical bearing, he felt the blow deeply. He had come back with ideas of a possible literary career before him, and it was hard to resign them all at once. It was rather late in the afternoon when they arrived, and Caffyn was there to receive them; he was delighted to welcome Holroyd, and his cordiality restored the other to cheerfulness; it is so pleasant to find that one is not forgotten--and so rare. When Vincent had gone upstairs to see his sleeping-room, Caffyn turned to Mark: there was a kind of grin on his face, and yet a certain admiration too. 'I got your telegram,' he said. 'So--so you've brought yourself to part with him after all?' 'I thought over what you said,' returned Mark, 'and--and he told me something which would make it very awkward and--and painful for him, and for myself too, if he remained.' 'You haven't told him anything, then, still?' 'Nothing,' said Mark. 'Then,' said Caffyn, 'I think I shall not be alone at Wastwater after all, if you'll only let me manage.'