Philip paced his room for hours, fighting the hardest battle he had ever fought.  It was the first time he had ever been tempted to marry—­tempted beyond endurance.  And, at last, ashen pale, in the wan morning light, and with set teeth, he took his final oath and resolve.  He would save himself years of wretchedness by a month’s anguish; he would not go near her, nor see her again.  He was not entirely selfish; he did not forget that she might, nay, would suffer, but he said, with a sigh, “It will be best for her as for me.”

* * * * *

A month passed by:  two months.  Virginia grew pale, listless, distraite; her step was languid, her eye haggard.  She did not know how to endure her life; she suffered torments day and night from an agonising desire to hear the voice, to meet the eyes again which had given light to her soul and in whose absence she felt it must needs perish of want.  It was plain enough to her why he avoided her.  He had seen that she loved him; he would not encourage false hopes in her breast.  Had she not been warned, ere ever she met him, that he abjured marriage?  She remembered, with a breaking heart, her own first playful words to him.

Mr. Hayward saw the change in Virginia, but he put it down entirely to the effects of a London season—­to late hours and the want of fresh air.  Never mind! the end was near at hand, and then they would go and fill their lungs with mountain air and their eyes with fair scenes, and the roses would come back to her cheeks and lips, and the light to her eyes.  He never for an instant connected his niece’s pallor with Philip Vansittart.  He would have ridiculed the idea of people being twice in each other’s company, and breaking their hearts with longing afterwards.

* * * * *

Mr. Hayward, his sister, and Virginia, were dining at a Swiss table d’hote.  Exactly opposite were two empty places.  The fish had been served, and two gentlemen came in and took them.  One was Mr. Philip Vansittart.  At sight of him the crimson blood rushed to Virginia’s cheeks, then ebbed away, leaving her deathly pale.  For a moment she thought she must swoon or die from the intensity of her feelings.  Philip was scarcely less moved, though, being a man, he was better able to control his agitation.  When he had time to look more narrowly at Virginia, he saw a mighty change in her.  His heart smote him; and yet—­had he not suffered?  Great heaven! had his been a bed of roses?  Had he not agonised after her?

Dinner over, the party went off into the garden.  A mutual unspoken desire made Vansittart and Virginia steal off together to a secluded spot.  Twilight was creeping on—­the last glow of a rosy sunset was fading away; the strains of a delicious waltz were borne towards them.  Vansittart felt his passion mastering him.  He made a herculean effort over himself.  He would speak.  He would tell her the truth.  After that she would forget him.  They were sitting under a tree that screened them off from the rest of the garden.  He could see well enough that she was trembling with nervousness; that delight, fear, expectation were blended in the beautiful eyes she turned towards him; and, lest suddenly he should yield to that mad longing to catch her to his heart, he began to speak hurriedly—­abruptly.