pose, and turn back to Cullerne. Yet half a
dozen times he went on, though with slow feet, thinking always, Was he
right in what he was doing, was he right? And the fog grew thicker; it
seemed almost to be stifling him; he could not see his hand if he held
it at arm's length before his face. Was he right, was there any right
or any wrong, was anything real, was not everything subjective--the
creation of his own brain? Did he exist, was he himself, was he in the
body or out of the body? And then a wild dismay, a horror of the
darkness and the fog, seized hold of him. He stretched out his arms,
and groped in the mist as if he hoped to lay hold of someone, or
something, to reassure him as to his own identity, and at last a
mind-panic got the better of him; he turned and started back to
Cullerne.

It was only for a moment, and then reason began to recover her sway; he
stopped, and sat down on the heather at the side of the road, careless
that every spray was wet and dripping, and collected his thoughts. His
heart was beating madly as in one that wakes from a nightmare, but he
was now ashamed of his weakness and of the mental _debacle_, though
there had been none to see it. What could have possessed him, what
madness was this? After a few minutes he was able to turn round once
more, and resumed his walk towards the railway with a firm, quick step,
which should prove to his own satisfaction that he was master of
himself.

For the rest of his journey he dismissed bewildering questions of right
and wrong, of prudence and imprudence, laying it down as an axiom that
his emprise was both right and prudent, and busied himself with the more
material and homely considerations of ways and means. He amused himself
in attempting to fix the sum for which it would be possible for him and
Anastasia to keep house, and by mentally straining to the utmost the
resources at his command managed to make them approach his estimate.
Another man in similar circumstances might perhaps have given himself to
reviewing the chances of success in his proposal, but Westray did not
trouble himself with any doubts on this point. It was a foregone
conclusion that if he once offered himself Anastasia would accept him;
she could not be so oblivious to the advantages which such a marriage
would offer, both in material considerations and in the connection with
a superior family. He only regarded the matter from his own standpoint;
once he was convin