The outlines of his vision of her were thus sharpened. Now that she and his hopes for the future were at once taken away from him he saw her as he had never seen her before. Her personality stood out more clearly. A new fierceness and impatience entered into his thoughts of her. That the worldly difficulties in the way of his claiming her were as great as ever mattered no longer. That he was still a midshipman mattered not at all. There was no denying now that he loved her--that fact dominated all others, sweeping aside doubts, and arguments, and misgivings. For a time this singleness of purpose was a source of happiness, a stimulant, the effects of which rapidly passed away. At last John went to Hartington, and showed him the fateful letter. “Well,” Hartington said, “what are you going to do?” “It’s definitely the end,” John answered. “It’s no good to go on hoping to leave the Service. I’d better settle down to it, I suppose.” “What are you going to say to your mother?” “Oh, some lie. I don’t want her to worry her soul out. Better make her believe I’ve changed my mind. How does one change one’s mind convincingly?” Together they planned his reply. “It’s all very well for me to say I will settle down,” John said, “but there’s no incentive in this job. I shall always look outside it. And yet, God knows, I shall take it lying down like the rest of them: grumble and grouse, but never break free, never rebel. Isn’t it odd how one submits and submits, until at last the average N.O. begins to believe, ‘Oh well, it isn’t so bad, after all’?” “Even the cabhorse gets accustomed to his cab--perhaps gets to like it in the end.” John answered: “I begin to see the wisdom of breaking snotties while they are young. I suppose it’s kinder in the long run.” II As autumn drew on to winter, the cold of Northern China closed down on Wei-hai-wei, and, after a short cruise to Ching-Wang-Tao, the _Pathshire_ lay in harbour until Christmas-time. John saw little of Margaret, and never saw her alone. To meet her now was an exquisite agony, for her beauty, of which he seemed never before to have been fully aware, had that amazing power to baffle and astonish which is the attribute of ghosts. For him the former Margaret still existed, but under a cloak of unreality. Her friendly smile, her deep, quiet eyes, that reflected laughter as a great lake reflects the lamps swinging on the boats of _fête_, her manner of giving him her hand, of inclining her body a little backwards as she spoke, these things were familiar with the familiarity of a persistent memory--in the light of circumstance they were no more substantial than this.