On the evening of the thirty-first of May, Endicott had gone to
bed with his ticket purchased for America and his last five-pound
note to last him until the boat sailed. He was a miserable young
man. He knew now that he loved Helen Carey in such a way that to
put the ocean between them was liable to unseat his courage and
his self-control. In London he could, each night, walk through
Carlton House Terrace and, leaning against the iron rails of the
Carlton Club, gaze up at her window. But, once on the other side
of the ocean, that tender exercise must be abandoned. He must
even consider her pursued by most attractive guardsmen,
diplomats, and belted earls. He knew they could not love her as
he did; he knew they could not love her for the reasons he loved
her, because the fine and beautiful things in her that he saw and
worshipped they did not seek, and so did not find. And yet, for
lack of a few thousand dollars, he must remain silent, must put
from him the best that ever came into his life, must waste the
wonderful devotion he longed to give, must starve the love that
he could never summon for any other woman.

On the thirty-first of May he went to sleep utterly and
completely miserable. On the first of June he woke hopeless and
unrefreshed.

And then the miracle came.

Prichard, the ex-butler who valeted all the young gentlemen in
the house where Philip had taken chambers, brought him his
breakfast. As he placed the eggs and muffins on the tables to
Philip it seemed as though Prichard had said: "I am sorry he is