ike the eyes of a
madman.

"I'll have her yet!" he cried. "To begin with, I have her sacred promise
that she'll never marry another man. Even yesterday she told me that she
could not dream of being the wife of an honourable man after promising
to marry such a thing as I. But she shall pay for that, by ---- she
shall! Yes, my proud lady, I'll humble your pride to the dust. You shall
eat your words."

He started to his feet, and paced the empty carriage like a mad lion
paces his cage. A new passion had laid hold of him now.

"No more whining sentimentality for me!" he cried, "no more moral
platitudes, no more drivel about trying to be a good man. Good man! Ha,
ha! But I'll humble her; yes, I'll not be beaten. Yes, and when I've got
my way, I'll taunt her with her words, I'll make her suffer what I'm
suffering; ay, and more--if it is possible. You little thought, my
pattern young Sunday-school teacher, of what you were doing when you
drove me to the devil."

He caught up the paper, and read the paragraph again. On the face of it,
it was a lie, a poor clumsy attempt to cover up the truth. The world
would soon know all about it. There were at least seven in the secret.
There was Purvis, and Sprague, and Winfield, and John Castlemaine--yes,
and the minister Sackville. John Castlemaine would be sure to tell him.
Then, as a matter of course, the minister would tell his wife. After
that--well, every old woman in the congregation would mouth the spicy
bit of gossip. Miss Castlemaine had cast him off, because he in a
drunken freak had made a wager that he would win her as his wife, and
she had found him out! He reflected on the way that the fat silly old
women in the world of so-called Society would discuss it over afternoon
tea, he imagined brainless dudes giving their opinions about him over
their whiskies. The men he had despised would pity him, and utter
inanities about him. Of course the news would reach his constituency
too. What capital his opponents would make of it all! He imagined the
leading article which would appear in the rag called _The Taviton
Argus_, about the reasons for Miss Castlemaine being taken suddenly ill.
And it would all be true! Ay, and what was worse, people would say that
he, Leicester, the cynic, the man who despised the conventional goodness
of the age, had become a teetotaler, a supporter of philanthropic
institutions in order to win a wager. Ay, more, he who had laughed at
religion had gone t