Nita—Jerome felt very uncomfortable when he thought of Nita—very uncomfortable as his eyes wandered from Sara Ford’s handwriting to Anita Bolton’s face, which face he saw was pale, and the reason of which pallor he knew as well as if some one had arisen and proclaimed it aloud to him. They were all, without exception, under a false impression in regard to him. How easy, exclaims a devoted adherent of right-doing, to remove that false impression! How very easy casually to let them all know that he was promised and vowed to another woman! Was not the excuse there in the shape of Sara’s letter? Why not mention that it was from the girl he was engaged to? What easier? Ah! what to some natures? And to others what more difficult? Unfortunately it was difficult to Jerome. He did resolve, as he looked at Nita that morning, and saw the difficulty she had in meeting his eyes, that he would not make love to her any more; that he would be cold to her even. Such natures as his are given to making such resolutions in momentary silence and reflectiveness; and when the moment comes for not making love, for displaying coldness, they never recognise it; it is always ‘not now, another time!’ And this, not for fear of hurting a woman’s feelings, though they would say so, even to themselves, but because the flattery of a woman’s love is too sweet a dram to be forborne. It was easy for Jerome Wellfield as he sat exchanging commonplaces at the breakfast-table with Nita—and Nita’s father—to swear to himself that such commonplaces alone should be the yea, yea, and the nay, nay, of his entire conversation with her. When the moment came, in which he found himself alone with her, or apart with her, the old trick of the eyes, the old smoothness of the tongue slips back again, as if by some fatality. So long as she believes him he will make love to her; so long as she will worship him, he will accept the worship, and will delight in it—and could not refuse it when it was offered, were the alternative a plunge into the nethermost abyss of remorse—into the scorching flames of discovery. Therefore, it may be predicted with mathematical certainty that he will read that letter that lies before him; that it will both charm and distress him—the first by its worship of himself; the next by making him see that the writer believes him as single-hearted as she is herself. After reading it, he will vow to himself, much and more, ‘I must tell her—I will tell her.’ And he will go to her, and will tell her—how precious her sympathy is to him, and how perfect is her nature, and he will look love, if he does not speak it. While he was longing to open Sara’s letter, and vowing great vows to undeceive Nita as early as might be, she said: ‘We are going to church this morning, Mr. Wellfield. Will you come too, or would you prefer to stay at home?’