t be all over then between them. It could not go on
after what he had now been told. She was willing, he presumed, to
marry him, having pledged him her word that she would do so; but it
was clear that she did not care for him. He would not hold her to her
pledge; nor would he take to his bosom one who could have a secret
understanding with another man.

"Miss Baker," he said to himself, "had treated him badly; she must
have known this; why had she not told him? If it were so that Miss
Waddington liked another better than him, would it not have been
Miss Baker's duty to tell him so? It did not signify however; he had
learnt it in time--luckily, luckily, luckily."

Should he quarrel with Harcourt? What mattered it whether he did or
no? or what mattered it what part Harcourt took in the concern? If
that which Harcourt had said were true, if Caroline had shown him
this letter, he, Bertram, could never forgive that! If so, they must
part! And then, if he did not possess her, what mattered who did?
Nay, if she loved Harcourt, why should he prevent their coming
together? But of this he would make himself fully satisfied; he
would know whether the letter had truly been shown. Harcourt was a
barrister; and in Bertram's estimation a barrister's word was not
always to be taken implicitly.

So he still walked on. But what should he first do? how should he act
at once? And then it occurred to him that, according to the ideas
generally prevalent in the world on such matters, he would not be
held to be justified in repudiating his betrothed merely because
she had shown a letter of his to another gentleman. He felt in his
own mind that the cause was quite sufficient; that the state of
mind which such an act disclosed was clearly not that of a loving,
trusting wife. But others might think differently: perhaps Miss Baker
might do so; or perhaps Miss Waddington.

But then it was not possible that she could ever wish to marry him
after having taken such a course as that. Had he not indeed ample
cause to think that she did not wish to marry him? She had put it off
to the last possible moment. She had yielded nothing to his urgent
request. In all her intercourse with him she had been cold and
unbending. She had had her moments of confidence, but they were not
with him; they were with one whom perhaps she liked better. There was
no jealousy in this, not jealousy of the usual kind. His self-respect
had been injured, and he could not endur