Of course he had always known that it must end some time, but while he drifted damnably he had not given much thought to that.  But now he had finished it by his own beastiality when, had he kept his head, it might have passed as it came—­a thing undefiled; a beautiful, tender memory.

Perhaps—­and at this Raymond shuddered—­perhaps he had driven the girl upon a reef.  He had heard of such things.  In despair she had violently taken herself out of his reach.  He could not believe she had been seriously involved while she played with him.  Whatever she was, he could but believe that she was innocent in her regard for him—­else why this mad flight?  And he could not believe that her regard for him was serious.  He was humble enough.

After leaving Joan the night before Raymond had met his Other Self squarely in the shrouded house.  Toward morning he had come to a conclusion:  he was prepared to pay to the uttermost for his folly, whatever the demand might be.  She must be the judge.

He would go to the tea room—­not to the house that he had so brutally invaded.  He would again talk to the girl and watch her—­he would make her understand that he was not as weak as he might seem.  If he had misunderstood, that should not exempt him from responsibility.  But if she should spurn any attempt of his to remedy the evil he could regard himself with a comparatively clean conscience.

Raymond could not get away from the idea that the girl was of his world—­the world where he was supposed, by Mrs. Tweksbury and her kind, to constantly be.

But then the empty tea room—­and how empty it was!—­stared him blankly in the face.  Miss Gordon’s manner angered him beyond expression.  Almost he felt he must tell her of his own low part in the tragedy in order to place her beside the girl he had insulted, instead of beside him, as he felt she was.

Raymond was hurt, disappointed, and disgusted; but as the day wore on a grave and common-sense wave of relief flooded his consciousness.  Bad as things had been, they might, God knows, have been worse.  As it was, with the best of intentions, he was set aside by the girl’s own conduct of her affairs.

To seek her further would be the greatest of folly and then, toward night, lonely, half ill, Raymond undertook that time-honoured custom of turning over a new leaf only to find that it stuck to the old persistently!

Then he resorted to a sensible alternative—­he read and re-read the old page.  He tried to understand it line by line.  He was humbled; filled with shame at his meaningless attitude of the past, and acknowledged that the grit in him, that he had hoped was sand, was, after all, the dirt that could easily defile.  He must begin anew and rebuild.  He must take nothing for granted in himself.  Having arrived at that conclusion, the leaf turned!