It was hard on Rickie thus to meet the devil. He did not deserve
it, for he was comparatively civilized, and knew that there was
nothing shameful in love. But to love this woman! If only it had
been any one else! Love in return--that he could expect from no
one, being too ugly and too unattractive. But the love he offered
would not then have been vile. The insult to Miss Pembroke, who
was consecrated, and whom he had consecrated, who could still see
Gerald, and always would see him, shining on his everlasting
throne this was the crime from the devil, the crime that no
penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. She never would know.
But the crime was registered in heaven.

He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what purpose? He
would say, "I love Miss Pembroke." and Stewart would reply, "You
ass." And then. "I'm never going to tell her." "You ass," again.
After all, it was not a practical question; Agnes would never
hear of his fall. If his friend had been, as he expressed it,
"labelled"; if he had been a father, or still better a brother,
one might tell him of the discreditable passion. But why irritate
him for no reason? Thinking "I am always angling for sympathy; I
must stop myself," he hurried onward to the Union.

He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the
advertisements of coaches for the Long Vacation. He heard Mrs.
Lewin say, "I wonder what he'll end by doing." A little
overacting his part, he apologized nonchalantly for his lateness.

"It's always the same," cried Agnes. "Last time he forgot I was
coming altogether." She wore a flowered muslin--something
indescribably liquid and cool. It reminded him a little of those