life, but a sweet
one. His intense love for pure beauty, combined with a strong dash
of epicureanism, had given a certain colour to its outward form as
well as to its inward workings. Even the simplest objects by which
he was surrounded were the best of their kind,--carefully and
faithfully chosen. The smallest details of his daily life had always
been governed by a love of comely and kindly order. Both in his
conversation and in his writings he had studiously avoided all
excess, all shadow of evil or unkindness. His opinions, well chosen
and deliberate though they were, were flavoured with a delicate
temperateness so distinctive of the man and of his habits. And now, it
was all to come to an end! He was about to sever the cords, to cut
himself adrift from all that had seemed precious, and dear, and
beautiful to him. He, to whom even the women of the streets had been
as sacred things, was about to become the established and the open
lover of a woman whom he could never marry. To a certain extent it was
like moral shipwreck to him. Yet he loved her! He was sure of that.
He had called himself in the past, as indeed he had every right to,
something of a philosopher; but he had never tried to harden within
himself the human leaven which had kept him, in sympathy and
kindliness, always in close touch with his fellows. And this was its
fruit! To him of all men there had come this....

Soon he found himself in the street, on his way to her. Such a letter
as this called for no delay. It was barely twelve o'clock when he rang
the bell at her house. The girl who answered it handed him a note. He
asked quickly for her mistress.

She left an hour ago by the early train, he was told. She has gone
into the country.

She had made up her mind quite suddenly, and had not even taken her
maid. The address would probably be in the letter.

Still standing on the doorstep, he tore open the note and read it.
There were only a few lines.

"Dearest, can you take a short holiday? I have a fancy to
have you come to me at my little house in Devonshire. London
is stifling me, and I want to taste the full sweetness of my
happiness. You see I do not doubt you! I know that you will
come. Shall you mind a tiresome railway journey? The address
is Bossington Old Manor House, Devonshire, and the station
is Minehead. Wire what train you are coming by, and I will
send something to meet you.