nothing will
happen. Perhaps you had better wait."

"No, Mr. Harding, I can't wait; I must go back to mademoiselle." And
the two went out together, Harding turning to the right, jumping
into a cab as soon as he could hail one, and Merat getting into
another in order to be in time to save her mistress from her madman
lover.

XVI

Three hours after Harding and Merat had left Berkeley Square, Owen
let himself in with his latch-key. He was very pale and very weary,
and his boots and trousers were covered with mud, for he had been
splashing through wet streets, caring very little where he went. At
first he had gone in the direction of the river, thinking to rouse
up Monsignor, and to tell him what he thought of him, perhaps to
give him a good thrashing; but the madness of his anger began to die
long before reaching the river. In the middle of St. James's Park the
hopelessness of any effort on his part to restrain Evelyn became
clear to him suddenly, and he uttered a cry, walking on again, and
on again, not caring whither he walked, splashing on through the
wet, knowing well that nothing could be done, that the inevitable
had happened.

"It would have been better if she had died," he often said; "it would
have been much better if she had died, for then I should be free,
and she would be free. Now neither is free."

There were times when he did not think at all, when his mind was
away; and, after a long absence of thought, the memory of how he had
lost her for ever would strike him, and then it seemed as if he
could walk no longer, but would like to lie down and die. All the
same, he had to get home, and the sooner he got home the better, for
there was whisky on the table, and that would dull his memory; and,
tottering along the area railings, he thought of the whisky,
understanding the drunkard for the first time and his temptations.
"Anything to forget the agony of living!"

Three or four days afterwards he wrote to her from Riversdale.
Something had to be written, though it was not very clear that
anything could be gained by writing, only he felt he must write just
to wish her goodbye, to show that he was not angry, for he would
like her to know that he loved her always; so he wrote:

"For the last four days I have been hoping to get a letter from you
saying you had changed your mind, and that what was required to
restore you to health was not a long residence in a convent, but the
marriage ceremony. This mo