ility of Sheila's resolving
never to see him again; and began to recall what Ingram had many a time
said about the strength of purpose she could show when occasion needed.

"If her faith in you is wholly destroyed, your case is hopeless. A woman
may cling to her belief in a man through good report and evil report,
but if she once loses it she never recovers it. But there is this hope
for you: I know very well that Sheila had a much more accurate notion of
you than ever you had of her; and I happen to know, also, that at the
very time when you were most deeply distressing her here in London she
held the firm conviction that your conduct toward her--your habits, your
very self--would alter if you could only be persuaded to get out of the
life you have been leading. That was true, at least, up to the time of
your leaving Brighton. She believed in you then. She believed that if
you were to cut society altogether, and go and live a useful and
hardworking life somewhere, you would soon become once more the man she
fell in love with up in Lewis. Perhaps she was mistaken: I don't say
anything about it myself."

The terribly cool way in which Ingram talked--separating, defining,
exhibiting, so that he and his companion should get as near as possible
to what he believed to be the truth of the situation--was oddly in
contrast with the blind and passionate yearning of the other for some
glimpse of hope. His whole nature seemed to go out in a cry to Sheila
that she would come back and give him a chance of atoning for the past.
At length he rose. He looked strangely haggard, and his eyes scarcely
seemed to see the things around him. "I must go home," he said.

Ingram saw that he merely wanted to get outside and walk about in order
to find some relief from this anxiety and unrest, and said, "You ought,
I think, to stop here and go to bed. But if you would rather go home, I
will walk up with you if you like."

When the two men went out the night-air smelt sweet and moist, for rain
had fallen, and the city trees were still dripping with the wet and
rustling in the wind. The weather had changed suddenly, and now, in the
deep blue overhead, they knew the clouds were passing swiftly by. Was it
the coming light of the morning that seemed to give depth and richness
to that dark-blue vault, while the pavements of the streets and the
houses grew vaguely distinct and gray? Suddenly, in turning the corner
into Piccadilly, they saw the moon ap