He went out, shutting the door with a bang. Murdoch stood at the window and watched him drive away in his gig.
He was scarcely out of sight before a carriage appeared, moving at a very moderate pace. It was a bright though cold day, and the top of the carriage was thrown back, giving the occupant the benefit of the sunshine. The occupant in question was Rachel Ffrench, who looked up and bestowed upon the figure at the window a slight gesture of recognition.
Murdoch turned away with an impatient movement after she had passed. "Pooh!" he said, angrily. "He's a fool."
By midnight of the same day Haworth had had time to half forget his scruples. He had said to his visitors what he had said to Murdoch, with his usual frankness.
"It's the last time. We've done with each other after this, you know. It's the last time. Make the most on it."
There was a kind of desperate exultation in his humor. If he had dared, he would have liked to fling aside every barrier of restraint and show himself at his worst, defying the world; but fear held him in check, as nothing else would have done,—an abject fear of consequences.
By midnight the festivities were at their height. He himself was boisterous with wine and excitement. He had stood up at the head of his table and made a blatant speech and roared a loud song, and had been laughed at and applauded.
"Make the most on it," he kept saying. "It'll be over by cock-crow. It's a bit like a chap's funeral."
He had just seated himself after this, and was pouring out a great glass of wine, when a servant entered the room and spoke to him in a low tone.