He sat down again in his easy chair and began to think.

“It is not,” he said to himself, “that I have got into any real scrape with Nina.  I have promised to marry her, of course, and I have made love to her scores and scores of times, but I don’t think she has any letters of mine, and in any case, she is not the sort of girl to go to law with a fellow.  No, I have nothing really to fear on that score.  But what perplexes and troubles me is this:  she has got a great power over me.  When I am with her I can’t think of any one else.  She has an influence over me which I can’t withstand.  I want her, and her only.  I know it would ruin me to marry her.  She has not a penny; she is an uneducated poor waif, brought up anyhow.  My God, when I think of how I first saw you, Nina!  That London street, that crowd looking on, and the pure young voice rising up as it were into the very sky.  And then the sound stopping, and the shout from the mob.  I got into the middle of the ring somehow, and I saw you, I saw you, my little darling.  Your hand was clenched, and the fellow who had dared to insult you went down with that blow you gave him to the ground.  Didn’t your eyes flash fire, and the flickering light from that fishmonger’s shop opposite lit up your hair and your pale face.  You looked half like a devil, but you were beautiful, you were superb.  Then you saw me, and you must have guessed that I felt with you and for you.  Our souls seemed to leap out to meet one another, and you were by my side in an instant, kissing my hand, and raining tears on it.  We loved each other from that night; our love began from the moment we looked at each other, and I love you still—­but I mustn’t marry you, little wild, desperate, bewitching Nina, for that would ruin us both.  My God!  I wish I had never met you; I am afraid of you, and that is the fact.”

Perhaps it was the unwonted beverage in which he had just indulged, which gave rise to such eager and impetuous thoughts in the breast of Captain Bertram.  It is certain when he had slept over his mother’s letter he felt much more cool and collected.  If he still feared Josephine Hart, he was absolutely determined not to allow his fears to get the better of him.  He ceased even to say to himself that he was in love with this pretty witch of the yellow hair, and his letter to his mother was as cool and self-possessed as the most prudent among parents could desire.

Bertram told his mother that he thought he could manage to exchange with a brother officer, so as to secure his own leave while the days were long and the weather fine.  He said that if all went as he hoped, he would be at the Manor by the end of the following week, and he sent his love to his sisters, and hoped the mater was quite herself again.

Not once did he mention the name of Beatrice, but Mrs. Bertram read between the lines.  She admired her son for his caution.  Her heart leaped with exultation, her boy would not fail her.