God you do not
bear our name though you have some of our blood. This will be the one
grain of comfort when I think that the whole County is gibing and
jeering. No--your name is no more Seymour Stukeley than is your
nature. If you will favour my Solicitors with your address, they will
furnish you with an account of your patrimony and such balance thereof
as may remain--if any. But I believe you came to England worth about
fifty pounds--which you have probably spent as pocket-money. I beg of
you to communicate with me or my household in no way whatsoever.

"G.S.S."

Hastily dressing, Dam fled from the house on foot, empty handed and
with no money but a five-pound note legitimately his own private
property. On his dressing-table he left the cheque given to him by his
"grandfather" for ensuing Sandhurst expenses. Hiding in the station
waiting-room, he awaited the next train to London--with thoughts of
recruiting-sergeants and the Guards. From force of habit he travelled
first-class, materially lessening his five pounds. In the carriage,
which he had to himself, he sat stunned. He was rather angry than
dismayed and appalled. He was like the soldier, cut down by a
sabre-slash or struck by a bullet, who, for a second, stares dully at
the red gash or blue hole--waiting for the blood to flow and the pain
to commence.

He was numbed, emotionally dead, waiting the terrible awakening to the
realization that he had _lost Lucille_. What mattered the loss of
home, career, friends, honour--mere anti-climax to glance at it.

Yesterday!... To-day!

What was Lucille thinking? What would she do and say? Would she grow
to hate the coward who had dared to make love to her, dared to win her
love!

Would she continue to love him in spite of all?

_I shall enjoy waiting twenty years for you_, she had said yesterday,
and _The world would be quite empty if you left it_. What would it be
while he remained in it a publicly disgraced coward? A coward
ridiculed by the effeminate, degenerate Haddock, who had no soul
above club-ribbons, and no body above a Piccadilly crawl!

Could she love him in spite of all? She was great-hearted enough for
anything. Perhaps for anything but that. To her, cowardice must be the
last lowest depths of degradation. Anyhow he had done the straight
thing by Grumper, in leaving the house without any attempt to let her
know, to say farewell, to ask her to believe in him for a while. If
there had been any question