But it was necessary that he should at last come to the consideration of the actual point as to which she had written to him so forcibly.  He tried to set himself to the task of perfect honestly.  He certainly had condemned her.  He had condemned her and had no doubt punished her to the extent of his power.  And if he could be brought to see that he had done this unjustly, then certainly he must beg pardon.  And when he considered it all, he had to own that her intimacy with his uncle and his wife had not been so much of her seeking as of theirs.  It grieved him now that it should have been so, but so it was.  And after all this,—­after the affectionate surrender of herself to his wife’s caprices which the woman had made,—­he had turned upon her and driven her away with ignominy.  That all was true.  As he thought of it he became hot, and was conscious of a quivering feeling round his heart.  These were bonds indeed; but they were bonds of such a nature as to be capable of being rescinded and cut away altogether by absolute bad conduct.  If he could make it good to himself that in a matter of such magnitude as the charge of his daughter she had been untrue to him and had leagued herself against him, with an unworthy lover, then, then,—­all bonds would be rescinded!  Then would his wrath be altogether justified!  Then would it have been impossible that he should have done aught else than cast her out!  As he thought of this he felt sure that she had betrayed him!  How great would be the ignominy to him should he be driven to own to himself that she had not betrayed him!  ’There should not have been a moment,’ he said to himself over and over again,—­’not a moment!’ Yes; she certainly had betrayed him.

There might still be safety for him in that confident assertion of ‘not a moment’; but had there been anything of that conspiracy of which he had certainly at first judged her to be guilty?  She had told her story, and had then appealed to Lady Mary for evidence.  After five minutes of perfect stillness,—­but five minutes of misery, five minutes during which great beads of perspiration broke out from him and stood upon his brow, he had to confess to himself that he did not want any evidence.  He did believe her story.  When he allowed himself to think she had been in league with Tregear he had wronged her.  He wiped away the beads from his brow, and again repeated to himself those words which were now his only comfort, ‘There should not have been a moment;—­not a moment!’

It was thus and only thus that he was enabled to assure himself that there need be no acknowledgment of wrong done on his part.  Having settled this in his own mind he forced himself to attend a meeting at which his assistance had been asked to a complex question on Law Reform.  The Duke endeavoured to give himself up entirely to the matter; but through it all there was the picture before him of Mrs Finn waiting for an answer to her letter.  If he should confirm