The strength was that of a man who combats desperately with some ailment which threatens his life.  ’Am I then of those who have no will power?  Will is that whereby men raise themselves above the multitude; let me give proofs now that my claims are not those of a charlatan.’  He passed six hours in his room.

Thyrza would go to the library at eleven, or a little after.  She was there now.  She would find the front door closed against her.  She would go round to the house, and make inquiry of Mrs. Butterfield.  Perhaps she would wait for him.

Yes, she would wait for him.  She was sitting in the library, on the chest which he had offered her for a seat, alone, disappointed.

Disappointed.  More than that.  Why had she come on Tuesday, the second morning?  Why had she desired to come yet again?  Had he read her face truly?

He knew, he knew with miserable certainty, that she did not love Grail.  She had not known what love was; a child, so merely a child!  But when love once was born in her, would it not be for life and death?

He was lying on the sofa again, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.  Moisture stood upon his forehead, formed into beads and ran off.  His torment was that of the rack.  He believed that Thyrza had at least begun to love him.  Madman that he was, he hoped it!  Thyrza’s love was a thing for which one would dare uttermost perdition, the blind leap once taken.  Yes, but that leap he would not take; he was on firm ground; he knew what honour meant; he acknowledged the sanctity of obligations between man and man

But if she loved him, was it right that she should wed Grail?  Obligations, forsooth!  Was it not his first duty to save her from a terrible self-sacrifice?  What could overrule love?  There was time to intervene; four days more, and it would be too late for ever—­for ever.  What hideous things might result from conscientiousness such as he was now striving to preserve.

’Thyrza!  She is waiting there, waiting for me to come to her.  She trembles at every sound, thinking it my footstep.  If her anguish be but the shadow of mine—­’

He sprang up, ghastly.  He had not closed his eyes through the night, but had lain, and walked about the room, in torment.  Desire, jealousy, frenzy of first passion, the first passion of his life; no pang was spared him.  Oh, how had it grown so suddenly!  He had imagined love such as this for some stately woman whose walk was upon the heights of mind—­some great artist—­some glorious sovereign of culture.  Instead of that, a simple girl who lived by her needle, who spoke faultily.  And he loved her with the love which comes to a man but once.

The evening came at last.  Long before it was really time to start for Lambeth, on his visit to Bunce, he began to walk southwards.  He was at Westminster Bridge by half-past seven; probably it would be useless to call in Newport Street for another hour.  He went down on to the Lambeth Embankment.