"I never loved any one but her," murmured Roland Lansdell, "I have been a hard judge of other women; but I believed in her."
"My poor boy, my poor impetuous Roland," Mr. Raymond said, softly, "men have to suffer like this once in a lifetime. Fight it out, and have done with it. Look at the foul phantasm straight in the eyes, and it will melt into so much empty air; and then, 'being gone,' you are 'a man again.' My dear boy, before this year is out, you will be sipping absinthe—most abominable stuff!—after supper at the Maison Dorée, and entertaining your companions with a satirical history of your little caprice for the Doctor's Wife."
"And Heaven forgive me for talking like Major Pendennis, or any other wicked old worldling!" Mr. Raymond added, mentally.
Roland Lansdell got up by-and-by, and walked to the open French window. There was a silvery shimmer of moonlight upon the lawn, and the great clock in the stables was striking ten.
"Good night, Raymond," said Mr. Lansdell, turning on the threshold of the window. "You can make some kind of apology for me to my uncle and Gwendoline. I won't stop to say good night to them."
"But where are you going?"
"To Nessborough Hollow."
"Are you mad, Roland?"
"That's a great deal too subtle a question to be answered just now. I am going to Nessborough Hollow to see Isabel Gilbert and her lover."