observe, divination came to his help. His knowledge of
Irene Derwent surpassed that of the persons most intimate with her, and
he could as soon have doubted his own existence as the certainty that
Irene was what he thought her, neither more nor less. But he had erred
in dreaming it possible that he might win her love. That he was not all
unworthy of it, his pride continued to assure him; what he had failed
to perceive was the impossibility, circumstances being as they were, of
urging a direct suit, of making himself known to Irene. His birth, his
position, the accidents of his career--all forbade it. This had been
forced upon his consciousness from the very first, in hours of
despondency or of torment; but he was too young and too ardent for the
fact to have its full weight with him. Hope resisted; passion refused
acquiescence. Nothing short of what had happened could reveal to him
the vanity of his imaginings. He looked back on the years of patient
confidence with wonder and compassion. Had he really hoped? Yes, for he
had lived so long alone.

Paragraphs, morning, evening, and weekly, had long since published Miss
Derwent's engagement. Those making simple announcement of the fact were
trial enough to him when his eye fell upon them; intolerable were those
which commented, as in the case of a society journal which he had idly
glanced over at his club. This taught him that Irene had more social
importance than he guessed; her marriage would be something of an
event. Heaven grant that he might read no journalistic description of
the ceremony! Few things more disgusted him than the thought of a
fashionable wedding; he could see nothing in it but profanation and
indecency. That mattered little, to be sure, in the case of ordinary
people, who were born, and lived, and died, in fashionable routine,
anxious only to exhibit themselves at any given moment in the way held
to be good form; but it was hard to think that custom's tyranny should
lay its foul hand on Irene Derwent. Perhaps her future husband meant no
such thing, and would arrange it all with quiet becomingness. Certainly
her father would not favour the tawdry and the vulgar.

No date was announced. Paragraphs said merely that it would be "before
the end of the year."

After all, his day amid the fields was spoilt. He had allowed his mind
to stray in the forbidden direction, and the seeming quiet to which he
had attained was overthrown once more. Heavily he moved to