Lily Dale; and though they had not discovered his
thoughts, they had perceived that he was hardly like himself.

"I never saw a man so little elated by good fortune in my life," said
Mr Optimist.

"Ah, he's got something on his mind," said Butterwell. "He's going to
be married, I believe."

"If that's the case, it's no wonder he shouldn't be elated," said
Major Fiasco, who was himself a bachelor.

When in his own room again, Crosbie at once seized on a sheet of
note-paper, as though by hurrying himself on with it he could get
that letter to Allington written. But though the paper was before
him, and the pen in his hand, the letter did not, would not, get
itself written. With what words was he to begin it? To whom should it
be written? How was he to declare himself the villain which he had
made himself? The letters from his office were taken away every night
shortly after six, and at six o'clock he had not written a word. "I
will do it at home to-night," he said, to himself, and then, tearing
off a scrap of paper, he scratched those few lines which Lily
received, and which she had declined to communicate to her mother or
sister. Crosbie, as he wrote them, conceived that they would in some
way prepare the poor girl for the coming blow,--that they would, at
any rate, make her know that all was not right; but in so supposing
he had not counted on the constancy of her nature, nor had he thought
of the promise which she had given him that nothing should make her
doubt him. He wrote the scrap, and then taking his hat walked off
through the gloom of the November evening up Charing Cross and St.
Martin's Lane, towards the Seven Dials and Bloomsbury into regions
of the town with which he had no business, and which he never
frequented. He hardly knew where he went or wherefore. How was he
to escape from the weight of the burden which was now crushing
him? It seemed to him as though he would change his position with
thankfulness for that of the junior clerk in his office, if only that
junior clerk had upon his mind no such betrayal of trust as that of
which he was guilty.

At half-past seven he found himself at Sebright's, and there he
dined. A man will dine, even though his heart be breaking. Then he
got into a cab, and had himself taken home to Mount Street. During
his walk he had sworn to himself that he would not go to bed that
night till the letter was written and posted. It was twelve before
the first words were marked