The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind
principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was
past midnight when he suddenly muttered a low "Damn!" and walked to the
bureau. He took up a pen and wrote:

"_Dear Mr. Sandeman_,--I must apologize for acting so rudely to you
last night. It was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since
find, on going into the matter, that you were quite right about the
position of Wych Street. I can't think how I made the mistake. Please
forgive me.

"Yours cordially,

"FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY."

Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have imagined
at that point that the matter was finished. But there are certain
little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of stilling, and
they kept Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night. He kept on
repeating to himself, "It's all positively absurd!" But the little
greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they began to group things
into two definite issues. On the one side, the great appearances; on
the other, something at the back of it all, something deep,
fundamental, something that could only be expressed by one word--truth.
If he had _really_ loved Adela--if he weren't so absolutely certain
that Sandeman was wrong and he was right--why should he have to say
that Wych Street was where it wasn't? "Isn't there, after all," said
one of the little demons, "something which makes for greater happiness
than success? Confess this, and we'll let you sleep."