o
an engagement, loitered about in his dressing-room for a while, then,
without seeing his father, betook himself to his club and dined there.
After passing the early part of the evening in an uncomfortable way,
with the help of newspapers and casual conversation, he went home again
and shut himself in his study.

He sat long, without attempting to do anything. About midnight he rose
as if to leave the room, but, instead of doing so, paced the floor for a
few minutes; then he opened a certain drawer in his writing-table, and
took out the morocco case which contained Emily's letters. He slipped
off the band. The letters were still in their envelopes, and lay in the
order in which he had received them. He drew forth the first and began
to read it. He read them all.

Till the early daybreak he remained in the room, sometimes walking
about, sometimes seating himself to re-read this letter and that.
Twenty-four hours ago these written words would have touched his heart
indeed, but only as does the memory of an irrecoverable joy; he could
have read them, and still have gone to meet Beatrice as usual, or with
but a little more than his ordinary reserve in her presence. It was
otherwise now. The very voice had spoken again, and its tones lingering
with him made the written characters vocal; each word uttered itself as
it met his eye; Emily spoke still. The paper was old, the ink faded, but
the love was of this hour. He grew fevered, and it was the fever of
years ago, which had only been in appearance subdued; it had lurked
still in his blood, and now asserted itself with the old dire mastery.

He marvelled that he had suffered her to leave him without even learning
where she lived. He could not understand what his mood had been, what
motives had weighed with him. He had not been conscious of a severe
struggle to resist a temptation; the temptation had not, in fact, yet
formed itself. What was her own thought? She had answered his questions
freely, perhaps would have told him without hesitation the address of
her lodgings. Clearly she no longer sought to escape him. But that, he
reminded himself, was only the natural response to his own perfectly
calm way of speaking; she could not suggest embarrassments when it was
his own cue to show that he felt none. She was still free, it seemed,
but what was her feeling towards him? Did she still love him? Was the
mysterious cause which had parted them still valid?

When already it was