And if his destiny intended for him
the good things of this world,--secretaryships, commissionerships,
chairmanships, and such like, would it not be well that he should
struggle on in his upward path by such assistance as good connections
might give him?

He sat thinking over it all in his own room on that evening. He had
written twice to Lily since his arrival at Courcy Castle. His first
letter has been given. His second was written much in the same tone;
though Lily, as she had read it, had unconsciously felt somewhat
less satisfied than she had been with the first. Expressions of
love were not wanting, but they were vague and without heartiness.
They savoured of insincerity, though there was nothing in the words
themselves to convict them. Few liars can lie with the full roundness
and self-sufficiency of truth; and Crosbie, bad as he was, had not
yet become bad enough to reach that perfection. He had said nothing
to Lily of the hopes of promotion which had been opened to him; but
he had again spoken of his own worldliness,--acknowledging that he
received an unsatisfying satisfaction from the pomps and vanities of
Courcy Castle. In fact he was paving the way for that which he had
almost resolved that he would do, now he had told Lady Alexandrina
that he loved her; and he was obliged to confess to himself that the
die was cast.

As he thought of all this, there was not wanting to him some of the
satisfaction of an escape. Soon after making that declaration of love
at Allington he had begun to feel that in making it he had cut his
throat. He had endeavoured to persuade himself that he could live
comfortably with his throat cut in that way; and as long as Lily was
with him he would believe that he could do so; but as soon as he was
again alone he would again accuse himself of suicide. This was his
frame of mind even while he was yet at Allington, and his ideas on
the subject had become stronger during his sojourn at Courcy. But the
self-immolation had not been completed, and he now began to think
that he could save himself. I need hardly say that this was not all
triumph to him. Even had there been no material difficulty as to
his desertion of Lily,--no uncle, cousin, and mother whose anger he
must face,--no vision of a pale face, more eloquent of wrong in its
silence than even uncle, cousin, and mother, with their indignant
storm of words,--he was not altogether heartless. How should he tell
all this to the girl who