It seemed to me that he was in a fair way to recover, and that his own philosophy, if left to take its time, was adequate to the occasion.  After his story was once told I referred to his grievance but once—­that evening, later, as we were about to separate for the night.  “Suffer me to say that there was some truth in her account of your relations,” I said.  “You were using her intellectually, and all the while, without your knowing it, she was using you.  It was diamond cut diamond.  Her needs were the more superficial, and she got tired of the game first.”  He frowned and turned uneasily away, but without contradicting me.  I waited a few moments, to see if he would remember, before we parted, that he had a claim to make upon me.  But he seemed to have forgotten it.

The next day we strolled about the picturesque old city, and of course, before long, went into the cathedral.  Pickering said little; he seemed intent upon his own thoughts.  He sat down beside a pillar near a chapel, in front of a gorgeous window, and, leaving him to his meditations, I wandered through the church.  When I came back I saw he had something to say.  But before he had spoken I laid my hand on his shoulder and looked at him with a significant smile.  He slowly bent his head and dropped his eyes, with a mixture of assent and humility.  I drew forth from where it had lain untouched for a month the letter he had given me to keep, placed it silently on his knee, and left him to deal with it alone.

Half an hour later I returned to the same place, but he had gone, and one of the sacristans, hovering about and seeing me looking for Pickering, said he thought he had left the church.  I found him in his gloomy chamber at the inn, pacing slowly up and down.  I should doubtless have been at a loss to say just what effect I expected the letter from Smyrna to produce; but his actual aspect surprised me.  He was flushed, excited, a trifle irritated.

“Evidently,” I said, “you have read your letter.”

“It is proper I should tell you what is in it,” he answered.  “When I gave it to you a month ago, I did my friends injustice.”

“You called it a ‘summons,’ I remember.”

“I was a great fool!  It’s a release!”

“From your engagement?”

“From everything!  The letter, of course, is from Mr. Vernor.  He desires to let me know at the earliest moment that his daughter, informed for the first time a week before of what had been expected of her, positively refuses to be bound by the contract or to assent to my being bound.  She had been given a week to reflect, and had spent it in inconsolable tears.  She had resisted every form of persuasion! from compulsion, writes Mr. Vernor, he naturally shrinks.  The young lady considers the arrangement ‘horrible.’  After accepting her duties cut and dried all her life, she pretends at last to have a taste of her own.  I confess I am surprised; I had been given to believe