This was on a Friday afternoon.

On the Saturday evening following, the fancy-dress ball was to occur.
The accident to the machinery and our delay were almost forgotten in the
preparations therefor. I had little to do; there was only one sick man
on board, and my hand could not cure his sickness. How he fared, my
uncomfortable mind, now bitterly alive to a sense of duty, almost
hesitated to inquire. Yet a change had come. A reaction had set in for
me. Would it be permanent? I dared scarcely answer that question, with
Mrs. Falchion at my right hand at table, with her voice at my ear. I was
not quite myself yet; I was struggling, as it were, with the effects of a
fantastic dream.

Still, I had determined upon my course. I had made resolutions. I had
ended the chapter of dalliance. I had wished to go to 116 Intermediate
and let its occupant demand what satisfaction he would. I wanted to say
to Hungerford that I was an ass; but that was even harder still. He was
so thorough and uncompromising in nature, so strong in moral fibre, that
I felt his sarcasm would be too outspoken for me just at present.
In this, however, I did not give him credit for a fine sense of
consideration, as after events showed. Although there had been no spoken
understanding between us that Mrs. Falchion was the wife of Boyd Madras,
the mind of one was the other's also. I understood exactly why he told
me Boyd Madras's story: it was a warning. He was not the man to harp on
things. He gave the hint, and there the matter ended, so far as he was
concerned, until a time might come when he should think it his duty to
refer to the subject again. Some time before, he had shown me the
portrait of the girl who had promised to be his wife. She, of course,
could trust HIM anywhere, everywhere.