That his affection for Dahlia was dead there could be no question, but that it was buried, either for himself or the public, was, most unfortunately, not the case. He was afraid of discovery for the first time in his life, and it was unpleasant. Dahlia herself would be quiet; at least, he was almost sure, although her outbreak the other evening had surprised him. But he was afraid of Mrs. Feverel. He felt now that she had never liked him; he saw her as some grim dragon waiting for his inevitable surrender. He did not know what she would do; he was beginning to realise his inexperience, but he knew that she would never allow the affair to pass quietly away. To do him justice, it was not so much the fear of personal exposure that frightened him; that, of course, would be unpleasant--he would have to face the derision of his enemies and the contempt of those people whom formerly he had himself despised. But it was not personal contempt, it was the disgrace to the family; the house was suddenly threatened on two sides--his father, the Feverels--and he was frightened. He saw his name in the papers; the Trojan name dragged through the mud because of his own folly--Oh! it must be stopped at all costs. But the uncertainty of it was worrying him. Ten days had passed and nothing was done. Ten days, and he had been able to speak of it to no one; it had haunted him all day and had spoiled his sleep; first, because he had done something of which he was ashamed, and secondly, because he was afraid that people might know. There were the letters. He remembered some of the sentences now and bit his lip. How could he have been such a fool? She must give them back--of course she would; but there was Mrs. Feverel. The uncertainty was torturing him--he must find out how matters were, and suddenly, on the inspiration of the moment, he decided to go and see Dahlia at once. Things could not be worse, and at least the uncertainty would be ended. The golden day irritated him, and he found the dark gloom of the Feverels' street a relief. A man was playing an organ at the corner, and three dirty, tattered children were dancing noisily in the middle of the road. He watched them for a moment before ringing the bell, and wondered how they could seem so unconcerned, and he thought them abandoned. He found Dahlia alone in the gaudy drawing-room. She gave a little cry when she saw who it was, and her cheeks flushed red, and then the colour faded. He noticed that she was looking ill and rather untidy. There were dark lines under her eyes and her mouth was drawn. There was an awkward pause; he had sat down with his hat in his hand and he was painfully ill at ease.