"You have written me accounts of your progress and work at the University, which, on investigation, I find to be simply a tissue of lies. "I have had bills for large amounts sent to me during the last few weeks from tradesmen, saying that they find it impossible to get any money from you, and that you ignore their communications. You have had splendid opportunities, a good name, with abilities above the average, and I believed that you would have done me credit. Your deceit and cruelty have broken my heart. "I shall do nothing further for you, and you must make your own plans for the future. "I shall not help you in any way. "Your unhappy "FATHER." He got up and had some more brandy, walking about the room. "I knew the old fool would find out soon. My God, though, it's rather sudden. I haven't twopence in the world, and the High Church people are beginning to smell a rat. Damn this collar--it's tight...." He tore it off, smashing the head of the stud, which rolled under the fender with a sharp metallic click. After a time he sat down again. The feeling of ruin was already passing away, and his face lost its sweetness and youth, while a sharp keen look took its place--the look that he wore when at night he was alone and plotting, a haggard, old look which no one ever saw but Condamine or Sturtevant. He took up the next letter, a small envelope addressed in a girl's hand:-- "WESTCOTT, "WOOTON WOODS." "DEAREST CARADOC,--You cannot think how delighted I was to get your letter on Saturday. I have been thinking of you a good deal the last two or three weeks, and wondering why you did not write. "Had you forgotten all about me? I expect so, but there is some excuse for you, as you must meet heaps of _pretty_ girls in Oxford. Do write me a nice long letter soon--a _nice_ letter, you know. "Good-bye, dearest-- "Your _very_ loving "GOODIE. "P.S.--Excuse scrawl." The hard, keen expression faded away, his eyes filling with tears, while the light played caressingly on his face and tumbled hair. It was his one pure affection, an attachment for a dear little girl of seventeen, a clergyman's daughter in the country. He thought of the evening walks in the sweet summer meadows, when the "mellow lin lan lone of evening bells" ringing for evensong floated over the corn. He remembered how her hair had touched his face, and how she had whispered "dearest." And then the thoughts of all the other women in Oxford and London came crowding into his brain. The hot kisses, the suppers and patchouli-scented rooms, the slang and high tinkling laughter. His brow wrinkled up with pain as he walked up and down the room, filled with a supreme self-pity.