But he first sorted his other letters, throwing away advertisements and useless papers. Then he took the letter from his pocket. The very handwriting showed incapacity and slackness. At dinner he would have the writer of this letter on one side of him, and on the other--he dared not think! The Warden ground his teeth and tore open the letter, and then a knock came at his door. "Come in," he said almost fiercely. Robinson came in. "I was to remind you, sir, that Mr. Bingham would be here to dinner." So much the better. "Very well, Robinson," he said. Robinson withdrew. The letter was a long one. It was addressed at the top "Potten End." "Potten End," said the Warden, half aloud. This was strange! Then she was not in the house! The letter began-- "Dear Dr. Middleton, "When you get this letter I shall have left your house and I shan't return. I hope you will forgive me. I don't know how to tell you, but I have broken off our engagement----" The Warden stared at the words. There were more to come, but these--these that he had read! Were they true? "My God!" he exclaimed, below his breath, "I don't deserve it!" and he made some swift strides in the room; "I don't deserve it!" CHAPTER XXVIII ALMA MATER The Warden went to the door and turned the key. Why, he did not know. He simply did it instinctively. Then he finished reading the letter; and having read it through, read it again a second time. He was a free man, and he had obtained his freedom through a circumstance that was pitifully silly, a circumstance almost incredibly sordid and futile. Her humiliation was his humiliation, for had he not chosen her to be his companion for life? Had he not at this time, when the full responsibility of manhood was placed on every man, had he not chosen as the mother of his children, a moral weakling? He locked the letter up in his desk and paced the length of the room once or twice. Then he threw himself into a chair and, clasping his head in his hands, remained there motionless. Could he be the same man who had a few days ago, of his own free will, without any compulsion, without any kind of necessity, offered himself for life to a girl of whom he knew absolutely nothing, except that she had had a miserable upbringing and an heredity that he could not respect? Was it her slender beauty, her girlishness, that had made him so passionately pitiful?