But to be beaten is not always to be conquered. Nay, to be twice-beaten, thrice-beaten, may still lead to victory. With human beings generally, a defeat weakens the moral fibre, lessens the power to resist. Yet there does exist a stamp of soldier, notably in the British Army, with whom defeat seems to stiffen the moral fibre, to strengthen the will, so as to render more resistless his next onset. Something of his struggle might have been visible to watching angels, themselves unseen of men, as Giles went to and fro those autumn days. He said nothing to anybody. It was not his way to talk about himself, to appeal for sympathy. He fought his bitter fight alone. Not Colin, with his keen vision, not Mrs. Keith, with all her eagerness, could penetrate the surface, could lift the covering and gaze below. Colin might have begun to suspect, but that now he was much away. Though one outburst of wrath had suggested a good deal, passion thereafter had been held down, and even Colin was deceived by Giles' calm. He spent time as usual over the management of his property, rode and cycled, saw friends, was the busy country gentleman,—too composed, too solid and occupied, for those around to imagine that within was a long-continued conflict. He had been worsted. He had retreated before the foe. Then, at a critical moment, Phyllys had been snatched away. He had time to recollect himself, time to be confronted afresh by his resolution. He took it up again, clenched his teeth, and—in Phyllys' absence—resolved anew. This was not impossible, when her presence no longer enchained him, when Colin seemed languid, and Giles could conjecture why. The thought of giving up Phyllys to another, though that other was Colin, shook him to the core; and it was a relief when Colin started for Edinburgh. Giles could get on better alone, thinking always of Phyllys, yet struggling not to think of her, striving to make up his mind that Colin should have the first chance. A fresh shock came, in the shape of a letter from the latter, gay in tone, announcing that he had been at Midfell for a week, and had all but finished the bust of Phyllys. "Not bad either, though I shouldn't be the one to say so!" he added. He did not write like a lover; but of course he would not. His presence in Midfell spoke plainly enough. Wrath again had Giles in its grip. To determine that Colin should be allowed a chance was one thing; to see Colin taking that chance, without a "with or by your leave," was another. He could face no human being that morning. He went off on his favourite horse for hours of misery; galloping across fields; refusing to think; conscious that he was once more overcome; yet aware that fresh power would dawn when he had rallied from the blow. He returned to dinner, a sombre meal, for Mrs. Keith was away; and so much the better. Her questions would have made the one straw too much.