It is strange, but nevertheless true, despite all our latter-day efforts at the reasoning away of sentiment, that conscience is still so very much alive in some of us, that when a man of birth and good-breeding has, according to his own stock-phrase for indulgence in vicious amusements, ‘seen life,’ by spending his time in low company, he is frequently moved by a strong reaction,—so powerful as almost to create nausea, and put him in a very bad and petulant humour. This was the case with Carlyon when he returned to his home at about luncheon time on the day Delicia departed seawards. He was not merely irritable, but he took a fantastic pleasure in knowing himself to be irritable, and in keeping his temper up to the required pitch of spleen. He was really angry with himself, but he managed to pretend that he was angry with Delicia. He had seen something in one of the papers about her which he judged as quite sufficient ground of offence to go upon, though he knew it was an attempt to vilify her fair name, which he, as her husband, should have instantly resented. In his own mind he was perfectly cognisant that, had he acted a manly part in the matter, he should have taken his riding-whip, and with it dealt a smart cut across the face of the literary liar who had published the false rumour, and yet, though he was aware of this, he had managed to work himself up into such a peculiar condition of self-pity that he could see nothing at all on his limited horizon but himself, his own feelings and his own perfections; and though he was partially and shamedly conscious of his own vices as well, he found such a number of excuses for these, that by the time he reached his own door he had, by dint of many soothing modern doctrines, and comfortable progressive moralist arguments, almost decided that he, taking men as they were, was really an exceptional paragon and pattern of virtue. ‘I must really speak very seriously to Delicia,’ he said to himself. ‘A woman as well-known as she is ought not to be seen at the “Empire,” and she has no business to receive actors at her “at homes.”’ With these highly moral feelings at work within him, he admitted himself into his own house, or rather his wife’s house, with his latch-key, and finding no one about, walked straight upstairs into Delicia’s study. The blinds were down, the room was deserted, and only the marble ‘Antinous’ stared at him with a cold smile. Descending to the hall again, he summoned Robson, who, instantly appearing, handed him Delicia’s letter on a silver salver with elaborately polite ceremony. ‘What’s this?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Is her ladyship out again?’ ‘She left for Broadstairs this morning, my lord,’ replied Robson, demurely. ‘Her maid went with her, and she took Spartan.’