“My dearest, I have been thinking bad thoughts of you all day.  Now I have come to myself.  I know where you were this morning, and I know that my life is broken.  I will not thrust my claim upon you, and I cannot ask you for pity.  You will not see me again.  I give you up without one reproach.  I only reproach myself for wearying you, and for trying to entrap you into a life that would have been misery to you.  I was meant for a failure; I was meant to pass through the world unknown and unheeded, saving by those near to me.  You require larger interests.  I am glad I have loved you, I am sorry I led you into treachery.  Good-bye.”

The town’s folk missed Desborough for a long while after this, and then it gradually oozed out that he had broken off his engagement.  Anyone who knows what the gossip of a provincial town is like, will understand the wrath and indignation that followed this proceeding.  Poor Desborough fancied he had been sacrificing himself, and, if the truth must be told, felt a little proud of his own nobility.  Yet all the while many tongues were tearing his reputation to shreds.

He had come to London, thinking the rush and hurry of crowded life would brighten his thoughts, and he was walking dreamily down the turbulent Strand one evening when he met a man from his own town.  He stepped up to his acquaintance and stopped.  The man looked him in the face and passed on.  Desborough turned and walked alongside, saying with quick breathing, “Why do you refuse me your hand?  I have not seen a face I know for days, weeks—­I don’t know how long.”

The man replied, “Look here, Desborough, I don’t like cutting any fellow, but I wish you had not tried to speak to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is very shabby of you to ask what I mean.  I do not pretend to be a saint at all, but there are things no fellow can stand.  I wish you would let me say good day.”

“But I insist upon knowing.”

“Knowing what?  You know what you have done, and I should think that ought to be enough to serve you.  I shall tell you nothing more.”

“Turn down into one of the quiet streets; and for pity’s sake tell me what you mean.”

They walked into the Adelphi, and Desborough’s friend said, “I thought you had a bit of the man about you.  Why do you thrust yourself on me?  You pretend to know nothing about the girl, and I call it shabby, there now!”

Presently Desborough found himself standing alone.

The whole position flashed upon him.  He could not go back.  He saw that his character was gone, and he saw that he was blamed for destroying a character that he had held more precious than his own.  He went to his chambers and wrote to a relation for money.  He intended to sell all that he owned, and he simply asked for an advance so that he might get out of the country quickly, and place the greatest possible distance between himself and his home before he finally parted with all that belonged to him.  He waited for two days, and the reply came:—­