“A mere fancy,” he said, lightly. “My dear Jack is apt to take these matters as very serious, but he generally manages to get over them. And now what will you take to drink, Mr. Rolfe?”
Gideon Rolfe waved his hand and put on his hat.
“I leave the letter with you,” he said. “Good-night.”
Stephen filled a wine glass with brandy, and drank it off, his hand shaking. Then he eyed Jack’s letter curiously, and at last held the envelope over the steam of the hot water, and drew it apart.
“A very sensible letter,” he muttered, as he read. “Ambiguous, but all the better for that. Really, anyone reading this, would conclude that Jack had made up his mind to marry Lady Bell, and was ashamed to say so.”
Then he reclosed the envelope, and went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.
Meanwhile Jack strode around the streets of London, his brain in a whirl, half mad with “the desperation of despair,” as a poet has it.
At last he reached home, and found the rooms dark and lonesome, and Leonard in bed.
He sat down and wrote a short note to Lady Bell, telling her that things had turned up which prevented him coming to Earl’s Court—giving no reason, but just simply the fact. Then he turned out, and he walked about till daylight.
When he came in Leonard was at breakfast, and stared aghast at Jack’s haggard face and changed appearance.