THE WISDOM OF AGE
The Secretary passed one of the worst nights of his life. His pride, self-esteem, and youthful estimation of his abilities as a diplomat had received a crushing blow. He told himself that he was not fit to copy letters in an office, much less to undertake delicate negotiations in which the honour of his country was involved. The conspirators had known him for what he was, a conceited young ass, and had egregiously fooled him to the top of his bent. They had regained the document without half trying; even Kingsland, whose intellect he had looked down on, had completely taken him in. It seemed as if he must die of shame when it became known. He would be disgraced and turned out of the service with ridicule. Then of his despair was born that resolution to do, which sets all obstacles at naught, and succeeds because it declares the possibility of the impossible.
He must retrieve himself, he must regain that letter, and hereafter his self-reproaches were mingled with every scheme leading to its recovery, that his brain could concoct.
He was downstairs soon after seven.
Entering the great hall, he found Lady Isabelle in sole possession, but equipped to go out.
"Whither so early?" he said.
"I'm going away—that is—out."
"Away?" he queried, as he saw her eyes fill with tears, and noted that she was closely veiled "Can I serve you?"
"No—yes," she replied, uncertain how to answer him. "Could I ask you to do me a very great favour?"
"Most certainly."