Merimee's letters. It was the woman who published them, wasn't
it?"

He caught up his armful, transferring it, on the doorstep, to a
cab which carried him to his rooms. He dined alone, hurriedly, at
a small restaurant near by, and returned at once to his books.

Late that night, as he undressed, he wondered what contemptible
impulse had forced from him his last words to Alexa Trent. It was
bad enough to interfere with the girl's chances by hanging about
her to the obvious exclusion of other men, but it was worse to
seem to justify his weakness by dressing up the future in delusive
ambiguities. He saw himself sinking from depth to depth of
sentimental cowardice in his reluctance to renounce his hold on
her; and it filled him with self-disgust to think that the highest
feeling of which he supposed himself capable was blent with such
base elements.

His awakening was hardly cheered by the sight of her writing. He
tore her note open and took in the few lines--she seldom exceeded
the first page--with the lucidity of apprehension that is the
forerunner of evil.

"My aunt sails on Saturday and I must give her my answer the day
after to-morrow. Please don't come till then--I want to think the
question over by myself. I know I ought to go. Won't you help me
to be reasonable?"

It was settled, then. Well, he would be reasonable; he wouldn't
stand in her way; he would let her go. For two years he had been