That he should ever in years to come, under any provocation, be betrayed into wrath with Colin, had seemed to lie beyond possibility. And until the day just ended he had not only shown no anger, but had never been tempted to show it, towards Colin. He had found it easy to preserve his self-control. Now the testing-time had come. Now, in one moment, his resolve had broken down. He had under stress given way to violent anger; and he found that past resolution opposed by the full force of his will. He was free to draw back. He had not yet avowedly sought Phyllys. Thus far he had been, to the best of his knowledge, no more than cousin and friend. Whatever he had felt at Midfell, he had not shown it. He would do "her" no wrong by retiring, by giving to Colin the first innings. He would wrong no one but himself. And, in the light of his past, he knew it was right—a matter of simple justice—that he of all men should refuse to stand between Colin and happiness. The question was not "Ought he?" but "Could he?" As he walked he made up his mind that he would do the thing that was right; that he would carry out his early resolution; that he would endure the cost. Thus, during hours of moonlight, followed by darkness. But in the chill light of dawn, as he tramped wearily to his room, tired, not with bodily exertion but with mental strain, another spirit took possession. Ho had meant to get off his walk with Phyllys. Better for him, safer and wiser, not to go. Yet, when it came to the point, he made no effort. He let things drift. He had the walk. Then, for yielding, he was the weaker, as for yielding, one can hardly fail to be. A paralysis seemed to lay hold upon him, though his had always been reckoned a manly will. And when he sat by her side, on the river-bank, he knew that, even for Colin's sake, he could not give her up. He could not! There was a limit to what might be expected of a man; and this reached beyond the limit. In so short a space she had grown to be everything to him; to be his love, his life. One month before she was but a name—Phyllys Wyverne, younger grand-daughter of his old great-aunt, living in the wilds of Yorkshire. He was vaguely interested in her, and he supposed that one day they might meet again: but whether he saw her or not was of no particular moment. Then they met; and his life was changed. Now nothing in the world was of moment except the overwhelming desire to win her. Give her up! See those two husband and wife! Her sweetness, all for Colin! Her love, Colin's right! Himself, in measureless desolation! He could not do it! The thing was impossible. The idea was preposterous. Colin had been dear to him; more dear than a brother. But besides this new passion, that quiet affection became as naught. Not that he did not care for Colin still, but that Phyllys was everything to him: Phyllys was his world, his universe.