At last, and reluctantly he put it in an envelope and addressed it, and turned it face downwards on his table, so that he might not see the name which had such power to torture his heart.

By the time he had succeeded in writing the letter the dawn was creeping over the hills and casting a pearly light upon the lake; he drew the curtains, and in the weird light caught sight of his face in the mirror:  a white and haggard face, which might well have belonged to a man ten years his senior; such a face as would not fail to attract attention and provoke comment by its appearance at the breakfast-table.  He flung himself on the bed, not to sleep, for he knew that that would be impossible, but to get some rest; but rest was as impossible as sleep.  When he closed his eyes Ida’s face was near him, her voice was in his ears, inextricably mixed with the slow and languorous tones of Maude Falconer.  He undressed and got into his flannels before Measom came, and went down to the lake for a bath.

He was, as a rule, so moderate in drinking that the wine he had taken, supplemented by his misery, made him feel physically ill.  He shuddered with cold as he dived into the water, and as he swam out he felt, for the first time in his life, a slight twinge of cramp.  At another time he would have been somewhat alarmed, for the strongest swimmer is absolutely helpless under an attack of cramp, but this morning he was indifferent, and the thought struck him that it would be well for him if he flung up his arms and went down to the bottom of the lake on the shores of which he had experienced such exquisite joy, such unutterable misery.  He met no one on his way back to the house, and went straight to his room.  The swim had removed some of the traces of last night’s work, but he still looked haggard and worn, and there was that expression in his eyes which a man’s wear when he has been battling with a great grief or struggling against an overwhelming fate.

As Measom was dressing him he asked himself how he should get the letter to Ida—­the only letter he had ever written her, the only letter he would probably ever write to her.  He decided that he would send it over by Pottinger, whom he knew he could trust not only to deliver the letter, but to refrain from telling anyone that he had been sent with it.  He put it in the pocket of his shooting-coat and went downstairs, intending to go straight to the stables to find Pottinger; but as he went through the hall, Murray, the secretary, came out of the library, and Sir Stephen caught sight of Stafford through the open door, and called to him.  Stafford went in, and his father rose from the table on which was already piled a heap of letters and papers, and taking Stafford’s hand, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You are early, my boy,” he said.  “I did not expect to see you for hours yet; couldn’t you sleep?  You look rather tired, Stafford; you were late last night, and—­ah, well! there was some excuse for a little excitement and exaltation.”