He missed something else, and was uneasy about it. He went to the looking-glass drawer, and turned out the whole contents upon the toilet-table—staring at a letter soiled, crumpled and torn, but still sealed, which rewarded his search, and lay at the bottom.
"What's this?" he muttered.
He drew a chair nearer the drawers on which the light was placed, examined the post-mark, the superscription, the seal, then opened the letter, dated on the day he went away on special service.
A long, confused epistle, written with difficulty and under much agitation, but telling one truth, at which he had guessed—which he had spoken of that night.
"I knew it before!" he cried; but the news daunted him, and unmanned him notwithstanding.
It was the climax, and he gave way utterly.
CHAPTER V.
AN UNAVAILING EFFORT.
The dry, matter-of-fact world, with its face to business and its back to romance, is still interested in love-matters, and passingly agitated by the sudden disruption of any love-engagement. It shows an interest in the latest news, and turns from its account-books for awhile to know how it came about that Damon and Phyllis could not agree upon "proprieties," and thought that it was better to part, for good and aye, than to settle down for good as man and wife. Having learned the news, remarked upon the pity that it was, or the best thing that could happen for her or for him, the world goes upon its course again, and the story is as old as the hills before the leading characters have got over their first heart-pangs.