* * * * *

The promise which Morris had made his old friend not to let his thoughts
dwell on suspicion and conjecture as yet uncertain of foundation was one
of those promises which are made in absolute good faith, but which in
their very nature cannot be kept. The thought of the hideous treachery,
the gratuitous falsehood, of which, in his mind, he felt convinced
Godfrey Mills had been guilty was like blood soaking through a bandage.
All that he could do was to continue putting on fresh bandages--that was
all of his promise that he was able to fulfill, and in spite of the
bandages the blood stained and soaked its way through. In the afternoon
he took out the motor, but his joy in it for the time was dead, and it
was only because in the sense of pace and swift movement he hoped to find
a narcotic to thought, that he went out at all. But there was no narcotic
there, nor even in the thought of this huge joy of love that had dawned
on him was there forgetfulness for all else, joy and sorrow and love,
were for the present separated from him by these hideous and libellous
things that had been said about him. Until they were removed, until they
passed into non-existence again, nothing had any significance for him.
Everything was coloured with them; bitterness as of blood tinged
everything. Hours, too, must pass before they could be removed; this long
midsummer day had to draw to its end, night had to pass; the hour of
early dawn, the long morning had to be numbered with the past before he
could even learn who was responsible for this poisoned tale.

And when he learned, or rather when his conjecture was confirmed as to
who it was (for his supposition was conjecture in the sense that it only
wanted the actual seal of reality on it) what should he do next? Or
rather what must he do next? He felt that when he knew absolutely for
certain who had said this about him, a force of indignation and hatred,