As the vessel bounded along through the waters, Lionel shaped his course. He was fain to confess that he wanted to see Amy, to see her once more, and judge for himself by her own words and conduct whether she truly loved him, or whether it was a mere mercenary passion. It was a long time before he confessed even to himself that it was she who drew him back to England--he could not rest without her. If she were really true, true as the artist had painted her, true as he once believed her, he would confess all to his brother, and ask Amy to return with him to India as his wife. What a fool he had been, he thought, to doubt her, and to come away without seeing her. What a miserable lonely life it was out there in India without a soul you cared for. How happy to have a wife there! No fellow ought to go out to India without one. And what did it matter about a woman’s origin in India, so that she was a lady in manners, and the wife of an officer of rank in his own right? Why had he not thought of all this before? It was only by degrees that he had permitted his thoughts to run wild like this. The sea seemed to help him out of his troubles; it was so boundless, so full of life and beauty. His thoughts appeared to mount the white-crested waves and travel away upon them to some quiet sandy beach where Amy was walking. Now that he had confessed to himself why he was returning to England, he gave his imagination the freest rein, and pictured the future as something almost preternaturally happy. He never doubted for a moment that when he came back to Barton Hall and threw his handkerchief at the feet of Amy she would pick it up and be his slave. That pride which had had so large a share in his leaving England and neglecting the woman whose love he had taken the trouble to win, did not desert him on his return. When he set foot in London he hesitated whether he should go straight to Montem, run down to Arthur Phillips’ at Severntown, or take the train to Avonworth. It had occurred to him more than once to visit Amy secretly; but his better sense prompted him to write a note to his brother telling him that he should visit him the next day, hoping to return again to India by an early mail. “He will be surprised,” Lionel thought, “to receive this; but he is a dear old boy after all, and I will soon put him all right. I wish I had had nothing to do with that infernal Stock Exchange business. I should then have had no qualms at all about meeting him again so suddenly.”