And with this unsatisfactory note, not worn next to my heart, not covered
with kisses, but thrust crumpled into my desk like a creditor's unwelcome
bill, I flung myself on my horse and rode to Derval Court. I am naturally
proud; my pride came now to my aid. I felt bitterly indignant against
Lilian, so indignant that I resolved on my return to say to her, "If in
those words, 'And yet,' you implied a doubt whether you loved me less, I
cancel your vows, I give you back your freedom." And I could have passed
from her threshold with a firm foot, though with the certainty that I
should never smile again.

Does her note seem to you who may read these pages to justify such
resentment? Perhaps not. But there is an atmosphere in the letters of
the one we love which we alone--we who love--can feel, and in the
atmosphere of that letter I felt the chill of the coming winter.

I reached the park lodge of Derval Court late in the day. I had occasion
to visit some patients whose houses lay scattered many miles apart, and
for that reason, as well as from the desire for some quick bodily exercise
which is so natural an effect of irritable perturbation of mind, I had
made the journey on horseback instead of using a carriage that I could not
have got through the lanes and field-paths by which alone the work set to
myself could be accomplished in time.

Just as I entered the park, an uneasy thought seized hold of me with the
strength which is ascribed to presentiments. I had passed through my
study (which has been so elaborately described) to my stables, as I
generally did when I wanted my saddle-horse, and, in so doing, had
doubtless left open the gate to the iron palisade, and probably the window
of the study itself. I had been in this careless habit for several years,
without ever once having cause for self-reproach. As I before said, there