And in his angry perplexity and growing resentment, Cleland’s conscience hurt as steadily as a toothache. He ought to have been home long ago. He should have gone back at the end of his two years. His father had trusted him to look out for Steve, and, in spite of her rather bumptious letters proclaiming her independence, he should have gone back and kept an eye on her, whether or not she liked it. In his astonishment and unhappiness, he did not know what to write her when the cablegram came hurtling into his calm and delightfully ordered life and blew up the whole fabric. Sometimes, to himself, he called her a "little fool"; sometimes "poor little Steve." But always he unfeignedly cursed Grismer and bitterly blamed himself. The affair made him sick at heart and miserable, and ruined any pleasure remaining in his life and work. He did not cable her; he wrote many letters and tore all of them to bits. It was beyond him to accept the _fait accompli_, beyond him to write even politely, let alone with any pretense of cordiality. His resentment grew steadily, increased by self-reproach. What kind of man had Oswald Grismer grown into? What kind of insolence was this—his marrying Steve—— "Damn his yellow soul, I’ll wring his neck!" muttered Cleland, pacing the deck of the Cunarder in the chilly April sunshine. But the immense astonishment of it still possessed him. He couldn’t imagine Steve married. _Why_ had she married? What earthly reason was there? It was incredible, absurd. Still in his mind lingered the image of the girl Stephanie whom he remembered as he last had seen her. Once or twice, too, thinking of that time, and conjuring up all he could picture of her, he remembered the delicate ardour of her parting embrace, the fragrant warmth of her mouth, and her arms around his neck. It angered him oddly to remember it—to think of her as the wife of Oswald Grismer. The idea seemed unendurable; it threw him into a rage against this man who had so suddenly taken Stephanie Quest out of his life. "Damn him! Damn him!" he muttered, staring out over the wind-whipped sea. "I’d like to twist his neck! There’s something queer about this. I’ll take her away from him if I can. I’ll do everything I can to take her away from him. I want her back. I’ll get her back if it’s possible. How can she care for Grismer?" He had nobody, now, to return to; no home, for the house was closed; no welcome to expect. He had not written her that he was coming; he had no desire to see her at the steamer with Grismer. With a youthful heart full of indefinable bitterness and self-contempt that his own indifference and selfishness had brought Steve and himself to such a pass, he paced the decks day after day, making no acquaintances, keeping to himself.