er affianced
husband and her old lover. But now if she would tell him that she
wished to be relieved from him, and to give herself to this stranger,
she should be allowed to go. But he told himself also that he would
carry his generosity no further. He was not called upon to offer to
surrender himself. The man's coming had been a misfortune; but let
him go, and in process of time he would be forgotten. It was thus
that Mr Whittlestaff resolved as he walked across the country, while
he left the two lovers to themselves in his own parlour.

It was now nearly five o'clock, and Mr Whittlestaff, as Gordon was
told, dined at six. He felt that he would not find the man before
dinner unless he remained at the house,--and for doing so he had no
excuse. He must return in the evening, or sleep at the inn and come
back the next morning. He must manage to catch the man alone, because
he was assuredly minded to use upon him all the power of eloquence
which he had at his command. And as he thought it improbable so to
find him in the evening, he determined to postpone his task. But in
doing so he felt that he should be at a loss. The eager words were
hot now within his memory, having been sharpened against the anvil of
his thoughts by his colloquy with Mary Lawrie. To-morrow they might
have cooled. His purpose might be as strong; but a man when he wishes
to use burning words should use them while the words are on fire.

John Gordon had a friend at Alresford, or rather an acquaintance, on
whom he had determined to call, unless circumstances, as they should
occur at Croker's Hall, should make him too ecstatic in his wish for
any such operation. The ecstasy certainly had not come as yet, and he
went forth therefore to call on the Reverend Mr Blake. Of Mr Blake
he only knew that he was a curate of a neighbouring parish, and that
they two had been at Oxford together. So he walked down to the inn to
order his dinner, not feeling his intimacy with Mr Blake sufficient
to justify him in looking for his dinner with him. A man always
dines, let his sorrow be what it may. A woman contents herself with
tea, and mitigates her sorrow, we must suppose, by an extra cup. John
Gordon ordered a roast fowl,--the safest dinner at an English country
inn,--and asked his way to the curate's house.

The Rev Montagu Blake was curate of Little Alresford, a parish,
though hardly to be called a village, lying about three miles from
the town. The vicar was a feeb