Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprung over the bench, rushed
between Flora and another lady, made towards the door in a straight line,
pushing every thing before him, till a passage was made for him by the
astonished crowd, who stood out of his way as if he had been a mad dog.

"Forester!" cried Henry and Dr. Campbell, who were standing upon the
steps before the door, speaking about the carriages, "what's the matter?
where are you going? The carriage is coming to the door."

"I had rather walk--don't speak to me," said Forester; "I've been
insulted: I am in a passion, but I can command myself. I did not knock
him down. Pray let me pass!"

Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with the strength of an
enraged animal from his keepers; and he must have found his way home by
instinct, for he ran on without considering how he went. He snatched the
light from the servant who opened the door at Dr. Campbell's--hurried to
his own apartment--locked, double-locked, and bolted the door--flung
himself into a chair, and, taking breath, exclaimed, "Thank God! I've
done no mischief. Thank God! I didn't knock him down. Thank God! he is
out of my sight, and I am cool now--quite cool: let me recollect it all."

Upon the coolest recollection, Forester could not reconcile his pride to
his present circumstances. "Archibald spoke the truth--why am I angry?
why _was_ I angry, I mean!" He reasoned much with himself upon the nature
of true and false shame: he represented to himself that the disorder
which disfigured his hands was thought shameful only because it was
_vulgar_; that what was vulgar was not therefore immoral; that the young
tittering ladies who shrunk back from him were not supreme judges of