, but of what, under changed circumstances, might be.
To encourage such fantasy was the idlest self-torment, but he had gone
too far in this form of indulgence. He became the slave of his inflamed
imagination.

In that letter with which he replied to her praises of his book,
perchance he had allowed himself to speak too much as he thought.

He wrote in reckless delight, and did not wait for the prudence of a
later hour. When it was past recall, he would gladly have softened
many of the expressions the letter contained. 'I value it more than the
praises of all the reviewers in existence'--would Amy be offended at
that? 'Yours in gratitude and reverence,' he had signed himself--the
kind of phrase that comes naturally to a passionate man, when he would
fain say more than he dares. To what purpose this half-revelation?
Unless, indeed, he wished to learn once and for ever, by the gentlest
of repulses, that his homage was only welcome so long as it kept well
within conventional terms.

He passed a month of distracted idleness, until there came a day
when the need to see Amy was so imperative that it mastered every
consideration. He donned his best clothes, and about four o'clock
presented himself at Mrs Yule's house. By ill luck there happened to be
at least half a dozen callers in the drawing-room; the strappado would
have been preferable, in his eyes, to such an ordeal as this. Moreover,
he was convinced that both Amy and her mother received him with far less
cordiality than on the last occasion. He had expected it, but he bit
his lips till the blood came. What business had he among people of this
kind? No doubt the visitors wondered at his comparative shabbiness, and
asked themselves how he ventured to make a call without the regulation
chimney-pot hat. It was a wretched and foolish mistake.

Ten minutes saw him in the street again, vowing that he would never
approach Amy more. Not that he found fault with her; the blame was
entirely his own.

He lived on the third floor of a house in Goodge Street, above a baker's
shop. The bequest of Reardon's furniture was a great advantage to him,
as he had only to pay rent for a bare room; the books, too, came as a
godsend, since the destruction of his own. He had now only one pupil,
and was not exerting himself to find others; his old energy had forsaken
him.

For the failure of his book he cared nothing. It was no more than he
anticipated. The work was done--the best he was c