, and Ted took it downstairs, to be ready for Vincent at
such time as he should come in. The boy turned into his own room without
going up again to say good-night.

He had left Katherine thinking. She had been struck with his words; they
had thrown a new light on his character. His tone was bitter when he
told her he had been thinking of nothing but Vincent; but it was not the
bitterness of selfish resentment. A shuddering hope went through her.
Either there always had been things in Ted's nature which she had never
suspected, or he had just begun his education by suffering--by having
felt. The latter was the more probable explanation; she knew him to be
capable of such absorption in pleasant sensations, that, if all had gone
well with him, he might from sheer light-heartedness have remained
indifferent to other people's woes. And all along he had been such an
irresponsible person, but now he was actually growing a conscience, and
a peculiarly delicate one too. Without any fault of his own, he had
behaved dishonourably to Vincent; and apart from the blow to his own
honour, it was evident that what stung him now was remorse for his
infinitesimal share in the causes that had led to Vincent's ruin.

In all that he had said there was no trace of any lingering love for
Audrey. Was it possible that the tragic spectacle of Vincent's fate had
moved him too with pity and terror, for the purging of his passion?

* * * * *

Hardy did not find Katherine's note till late next morning. He read it
twice over with an incredulous air, and put it into the fire. He wrote a
short but grateful refusal, saying truly that he was very seedy, and not
pleasant company for any one at present.

Not long after, he was alone, as usual, in his dingy ground-floor
sitting-room. It was about five o'clock; but he had not lit his lamp
yet, and he had let his fire go out, though it was cold and rainy. A
gas-lamp from the street shone through the dripping window-panes,
bringing a dreary twilight into the room, making it one with the
melancholy of the rain-swept streets.

He sat by the table, with his head in his hands, a prey to the appalling
depression which was his mood when sober.

For the last three months he had had a curious double consciousness: of
himself as an actor in a phantom world, lost in some night of dreams,
where the same thoughts--always, the same thoughts--thoughts that were
sins--came to him in sicke