If the thoughts that still hung heavy on my mind were only the morbid,
fanciful thoughts of the hour, here was a man whose society would
dissipate them. I resolved to try the experiment, and accepted his
invitation.

At dinner, I tried hard to rival him in jest and joviality; I drank
much more than my usual quantity of wine--but it was useless. The gay
words came fainting from my heart, and fell dead on my lips. The wine
fevered, but did not exhilarate me. Still, the image of the dark
beauty of the morning was the one reigning image of my
thoughts--still, the influence of the morning, at once sinister and
seductive, kept its hold on my heart.

I gave up the struggle. I longed to be alone again. My friend soon
found that my forced spirits were flagging; he tried to rouse me,
tried to talk for two, ordered more wine, but everything failed.
Yawning at last, in undisguised despair, he suggested a visit to the
theatre.

I excused myself--professed illness--hinted that the wine had been too
much for me. He laughed, with something of contempt as well as
good-nature in the laugh; and went away to the play by himself
evidently feeling that I was still as bad a companion as he had found
me at college, years ago.

As soon as we parted I felt a sense of relief. I hesitated, walked
backwards and forwards a few paces in the street; and then, silencing
all doubts, leaving my inclinations to guide me as they would--I
turned my steps for the third time in that one day to Hollyoake
Square.