as a
grievance to him and a disgrace that he should have anything to
conceal. It was a stain in his own eyes on his own nobility, a slur
upon his escutcheon, a taint in his hitherto unslobbered honesty, and
then the sin of it;--the sin of it! To him it already sat heavy on his
conscience. In his ear, even now, sounded that commandment which he
weekly prayed that he might be permitted to keep. While with her there
was hardly left a remembrance of the kiss which he had imprinted on her
brow, his lips were still burning with the fever. Should he make up his
mind, now at once, that he would never, never see her again? Should he
resolve that he would write to her a moving tragic letter,--not a love
letter,--in which he would set forth the horrors of unhallowed love,
and tell her that there must be a gulf between them, over which neither
must pass till age should have tamed their passions! As he walked
across the park he meditated what would be the fitting words for such a
letter, and almost determined that it should be written. Did he not owe
his first duty to his wife, and was he not bound for her sake to take
such a step? Then, as he wandered alone in Kensington Gardens,--for it
had taken him many steps, and occupied much time to think of it
all,--there came upon him an idea that perhaps the lady would not
receive the letter in the proper spirit. Some idea occurred to him of
the ridicule which would befall him should the lady at last tell him
that he had really exaggerated matters. And then the letter might be
shown to others. He did love the lady. With grief and shame and a
stricken conscience he owned to himself that he loved her. But he could
not quite trust her. And so, as he walked down towards the Albert
Memorial, he made up his mind that he would not write the letter. But
he also made up his mind,--he thought that he made up his mind,--that
he would go no more alone to Berkeley Square.

As he walked on he suddenly came upon his wife walking with Captain De
Baron, and he was immediately struck by the idea that his wife ought
not to be walking in Kensington Gardens with Captain De Baron. The idea
was so strong as altogether to expel from his mind for the moment all
remembrance of Mrs. Houghton. He had been unhappy before because he was
conscious that he was illtreating his wife, but now he was almost more
disturbed because it seemed to him to be possible that his wife was
illtreating him. He had left her but a few min