t--it's none of my business." But that bewildered murmur was followed
again and again by the incongruous ejaculation: "Was it a plan--was it a
plan?" Sometimes he cried to himself, breathless, "Have I been duped,
sold, swindled?" If at all, he was an absurd, an abject victim. It was
as if he hadn't lost her till now. He had renounced her, yes; but that
was another affair--that was a closed but not a locked door. Now he
seemed to see the door quite slammed in his face. Did he expect her to
wait--was she to give him his time like that: two years at a stretch? He
didn't know what he had expected--he only knew what he hadn't. It wasn't
this--it wasn't this. Mystification bitterness and wrath rose and boiled
in him when he thought of the deference, the devotion, the credulity with
which he had listened to St. George. The evening wore on and the light
was long; but even when it had darkened he remained without a lamp. He
had flung himself on the sofa, where he lay through the hours with his
eyes either closed or gazing at the gloom, in the attitude of a man
teaching himself to bear something, to bear having been made a fool of.
He had made it too easy--that idea passed over him like a hot wave.
Suddenly, as he heard eleven o'clock strike, he jumped up, remembering
what General Fancourt had said about his coming after dinner. He'd
go--he'd see her at least; perhaps he should see what it meant. He felt
as if some of the elements of a hard sum had been given him and the
others were wanting: he couldn't do his sum till he had got all his
figures.

He dressed and drove quickly, so that by half-past eleven he was at
Manchester Square. There were a good many carriages at the door--a party
was going on; a circumstance which at the last gave him a slight relief,
for now he would rather see her in a crowd. People passed him on the
staircase; they were going away, going "on" with the hunted herdlike
movement of London society at night. But sundry groups remained in the
drawing-room, and it was some minutes, as she didn't hear him announced,
before he discovered and spoke to her. In this short interval he had
seen St. George talking to a lady before the fireplace; but he at once
looked away, feeling unready for an encounter, and therefore couldn't be
sure the author of "Shadowmere" noticed him. At all events he didn't
come over though Miss Fancourt did as soon as she saw him--she almost
rushed at him, smiling rustling r