lowed to keep such happiness on this earth. So come to
me quickly, dearest; you seem so far, far away from me. I kiss your dear
letters, I wear them near my heart, at night they are under my pillow. I
love you, I love you."

And this heart-cry broke down all the strong fibre of the man. Poor
Alice! He must take care of such a child; he must cherish her life and
make it perfect! Not in the least detail must he fail in his duty. Never
for a moment must she think that this was--he flinched now before the
words--an engagement of convenience!

An engagement of convenience! He slipped away to his room--away from the
rest of the world!--and sat staring into the dusk. He knew now that he
was face to face with the actuality that lay before him in all its
horror. An engagement of convenience! He would have given the world to
recall it. His eyes saw clear again--the enthusiasm that swirled and
whirled around him had thus far sustained him: vibrations of romance had
arisen within him, had resounded with a certain music. But these letters
of Alice, this crescendo series, each soaring beyond the other, had
illumined the horrible poverty of his own emotion. The freshness of her
note was a revelation and yet an agony to him. If only he could have
piped with half the thrill!

He could see at last that in his specious reasonings he had somehow
assumed a largely passive attitude on her part. Indeed, egotistically
preoccupied with his own side of the case, he had scarcely bestowed a
thought on hers. This reality--immense--overpowering--of the romance in
her heart terrified him. He had given her empty words, and she had given
him--love! And what else, indeed, but empty words had he to offer her
now?--had he to offer her in the whole long vista of their future? At
the best a studied kindness, an acceptance of duty. He had entered on a
role of mockery, and he knew now he was utterly unfitted to play it. His
whole nature rose and cried aloud in revolt.

XV

At the beginning of the New Year Wyndham hastened back to town, and was
soon at his post striving to adapt himself to the outlook of his life.
He had tried to steel himself to confess the miserable truth to Alice,
to lay it before her with a fidelity as unswerving as Nature, merciless
both to him and to her. But her letters continued to shake him, and he
had not the strength to face the inevitable wreckage. To break was to
punish her: to continue was only to punish himself. His