he background of ice in Dacier's composition was brought to the front by
his righteous contempt of her treachery. No explanation of it would have
appeased him. She was guilty, and he condemned her. She stood condemned
by all the evil likely to ensue from her misdeed. Scarcely had he left
her house last night when she was away to betray him!--He shook her from
him without a pang. Crediting her with the one merit she had--that of not
imploring for mercy--he the more easily shook her off. Treacherous, she
had not proved theatrical. So there was no fuss in putting out her light,
and it was done. He was justified by the brute facts. Honourable,
courteous, kindly gentleman, highly civilized, an excellent citizen and a
patriot, he was icy at an outrage to his principles, and in the dominion
of Love a sultan of the bow-string and chopper period, sovereignly
endowed to stretch a finger for the scimitared Mesrour to make the erring
woman head and trunk with one blow: and away with those remnants! This
internally he did. Enough that the brute facts justified him.

St. James's park was crossed, and the grass of the Green park, to avoid
inquisitive friends. He was obliged to walk; exercise, action of any
sort, was imperative, and but for some engagement he would have gone to
his fencing-rooms for a bout with the master. He remembered his
engagement and grew doubly embittered. He had absurdly pledged himself to
lunch with Quintin Manx; that was, to pretend to eat while submitting to
be questioned by a political dullard strong on his present right to
overhaul and rail at his superiors. The house was one of a block along
the North-Western line of Hyde park. He kicked at the subjection to go
there, but a promise was binding, though he gave it when stunned. He
could have silenced Mr. Manx with the posing interrogation: Why have I so
long consented to put myself at the mercy of a bore? For him, he could
not answer it, though Manx, as leader of the Shipping interest, was
influential. The man had to be endured, like other doses in politics.

Dacier did not once think of the great ship-owner's niece till Miss
Constance Asper stepped into her drawing-room to welcome him. She was an
image of repose to his mind. The calm pure outline of her white features
refreshed him as the Alps the Londoner newly alighted at Berne; smoke,
wrangle, the wrestling city's wickedness, behind him.

'My uncle is very disturbed,' she said. 'Is the news--if I am not