For other acquaintances he cared nothing.

So his fate at last had declared itself.  Even though the all but impossible should befall, and Grail should still marry Thyrza, how could the schemes for common activity survive this shock?  Say what he might, he had no longer even the desire to work personally for the old aims.  How hard to believe that he was the same man who had lectured to that little band of hearers on English Literature, who had uttered with such vehemence the ‘Thoughts for the Present!’ That period of his life was gone by like smoke; the heart in which such enthusiasms were nourished had been swept by an all-consuming fire.  Henceforth he must live for himself, the vainest of all lives.  To such a one the world was a sorry place.  He had no mind to taste such pleasures as it offered to a rich man with no ideal save physical enjoyment; he no longer cared to search out its beautiful things, to probe its mysteries.  To what end, since all pleasure and all knowledge must end in himself? . . .

Where at this moment was Thyrza?  The thought had mingled with all those others.  Did she then love him so much that marriage with Grail had become impossible—­that she would rather face every hardship and peril of a hidden life in some dark corner of London?  For she lived; proof of it seemed to be in the refusal of his mind to contemplate a fatal issue of her trial.  She lived, and held him in her heart—­the strong, passionate heart, source of music and of love.  And he—­could he foresee the day when he should no longer love her?

But of that she knew nothing, and must never know of it.  The one outlook for his life lay yonder, where love was beckoning; grant him leave to follow, and what limitless prospect opened in place of the barren hills which now enclosed him!  But follow he must not.  In that respect nothing was altered.  When he thought of Thyrza, it must still be with the hope that she would return and fulfil her promise to Gilbert Grail.

At a late hour he went to his bedroom.  He lay down with a weary brain, and, in trying to ask himself what he should do on the morrow, fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXVII

FOUND

Mrs. Ormonde waited anxiously for Annabel’s first letter from London.  Neither of them had spoken of Egremont after Annabel’s visit with the news from Paula.  The girl gave no sign of trouble; she appeared to continue her preparations with the same enjoyment as before.  It was doubtful whether, in writing, she would make any reference to Egremont, but Mrs. Ormonde hoped there would be some word.

The letter came five days after Annabel’s arrival in London, and was short.  It mentioned visits to the Academy and the Grosvenor, made a few comments, spoke of this and that old acquaintance reseen; then came a concluding paragraph: