The broadly human creed of the minister included every living thing, and the man himself interested Doctor Dexter in much the same way that a new slide for his microscope might interest him.  They exchanged visits frequently when the duties of both permitted, and the Doctor reflected that, when Ralph came, Thorpe would be lonely.

The Dexter house was an old one but it had been kept in good repair.  From time to time, wings had been added to the original structure, until now it sprawled lazily in every direction.  One wing, at the right of the house, contained the Doctor’s medical library, office, reception room, and laboratory.  Doors were arranged in metropolitan fashion, so that patients might go out of the office without meeting any one.  The laboratory, at the back of the wing, was well fitted with modern appliances for original research, and had, too, its own outside door.

When Ralph came home, the other wing, at the left of the house, was to be arranged in like manner for him if he so desired.  Doctor Dexter had some rough drawings under consideration, but wanted Ralph to order the plans in accordance with his own ideas.

The breakfast bell rang again, and Doctor Dexter went downstairs.  The servant met him in the hall.  “Breakfast is waiting, sir,” she said.

“All right,” returned the Doctor, absently.  “I’ll be there in a moment.”

He opened the door for a breath of fresh air, and immediately perceived the small, purple velvet box at his feet.  He picked it up, wonderingly, and opened it.

Inside were the discoloured pearls on their bed of yellowed satin, and the ivory-tinted slip of paper on which he had written, so long ago, in his clear, boyish hand:  “First, from the depths of the sea, and then from the depths of my love.”

Being unemotional, he experienced nothing at first, save natural surprise.  He stood there, staring into vacancy, idly fingering the pearls.  By some evil magic of the moment, the hour seemed set back a full quarter of a century.  As though it were yesterday, he saw Evelina before him.

She had been a girl of extraordinary beauty and charm.  He had travelled far and seen many, but there had been none like Evelina.  How he had loved her, in those dead yesterdays, and how she had loved him!  The poignant sweetness of it came back, changed by some fatal alchemy into bitterness.

Anthony Dexter had seen enough of the world to recognise cowardice when he saw it, even in himself.  His books had taught him that the mind could hold but one thought at a time, and, persistently, he had displaced the unpleasant ones which constantly strove for the right of possession.

Hard work and new love and daily wearying of the body to the point of exhaustion had banished those phantoms of earlier years, save in his dreams.  At night, the soul claims its own—­its right to suffer for its secret sins, its shirking, its betrayals.