might precipitate a scene, except as a last resort, and he
presently bade her good-night, after commenting upon the events of the
evening with the casual interest of one accustomed to public
spectacles. In reality, his interest had been deep, but now another
matter demanded his thought, and he was willing to be alone. He was
reminded by the encounter in the street that it was high time to put
the machinery in operation by which the young professor was to be
quietly dismissed from St. George's Hall. Satisfied with his analysis
of his daughter's state of mind, he perfected his plan, and went to bed
in comparative content.

Leigh sat for a long time staring at the flame of his lamp and striving
to take reckoning with himself. He could no more have told how he
found his way to his room than if he had been carried thither in a
state of insensibility, but there he was, trying to think, while mere
emotion still held a riotous sway. He had kissed her, and the touch of
her lips, the fragrance of her skin, were even now present in his
senses. The experience caused him to readjust his impression of her.
She had lost something in his eyes. What was it? Not height; though
she seemed less tall. The change was not in stature. Like Pygmalion,
he had found the marble grow warm and human beneath his caress; he was
still bewildered by the wonder of it, and mad with a sense of triumph.
She had lost her inaccessibility, her inviolable distance, but she had
gained in womanly quality, gained infinitely upon his heart, so that
now he longed for only one thing--to take her in his arms once more.
At the thought he flushed warmly; but suddenly his heart grew cold, as
her words came back so vividly to his mind that they seemed spoken
audibly in the room: "Since it is to be good-bye."

He arose from his chair and walked rapidly up and down the room, as if
to escape from his own condemnation. Had he, then, no honour at all?
The question brought him face to face with his naked soul, and he was
afraid. What sophistry was that by which he had justified his act? He
had argued that it was to be a kiss of farewell, and no sooner had he
attained his wish than all thought of the stipulation vanished utterly
from his mind, leaving only a more insatiable longing. The last
vestige of his morality seemed to be swept away, and memory made the
taste of stolen waters still sweet to his lips. When he judged Emmet
so severely, he was proudly sure of