you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered a
handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house again,
you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possess
will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you have
dishonoured. Now you can go."

Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at Knightsbridge.
Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him
till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done should be done
after a night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of his being were
to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some deep
instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is it that a point comes when
success demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was all so absurdly
trivial--a mere argument about the position of a street that had ceased
to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about Wych Street?

Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but
would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument
about a street?

In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting a
pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for
companionship at such a moment--the right companionship. How lovely it
would be to have--a woman, just the right woman, to talk this all over
with; some one who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision came to
him of Adela's face grinning about the prospective visit of La Toccata,
and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in his ears. Would Adela
be--just the right woman? In very truth, did he really love Adela? Or
was it all--a rag? Was life a rag--a game played by lawyers,
politicians, and people?