’Who the devil could imagine what was going to happen?  Look here, Alice; if it hadn’t been for mother, I shouldn’t have engaged myself to Emma.  I shouldn’t have cared much in the old kind of life; she’d have suited me very well.  You can say all the good about her you like, I know it’ll be true.  It’s a cursed shame to treat her in this way, I don’t need telling that.  But it wouldn’t do as things are; why, you can see for yourself—­would it now?  And that’s only half the question:  I’m going to marry somebody I do really care for.  What’s the good of keeping my word to Emma, only to be miserable myself and make her the same?  It’s the hardest thing ever happened to a man.  Of course I shall be blackguarded right and left.  Do I deserve it now?  Can I help it?’

It was not quite consistent with the tone in which he had begun, but it had the force of a genuine utterance.  To this Richard had worked himself in fretting over his position; he was the real sufferer, though decency compelled him to pretend it was not so.  He had come to think of Emma almost angrily; she was a clog on him, and all the more irritating because he knew that his brute strength, if only he might exert it, could sweep her into nothingness at a blow.  The quietness with which Alice accepted his revelation encouraged him in self-defence.  He talked on for several minutes, walking about and swaying his arms, as if in this way he could literally shake himself free of moral obligations.  Then, finding his throat dry, he had recourse to cognac, and Alice could at length speak.

‘You haven’t told me, Dick, who it is you’re going to marry.’

’A lady called Miss Waltham—­Adela Waltham.  She lives here in Wanley.’

‘Does she know about Emma?’

The question was simply put, but it seemed to affect Richard very disagreeably.

‘No, of course she doesn’t.  What would be the use?’

He threw himself into a chair, crossed his feet, and kept silence.

‘I’m very sorry for Emma,’ murmured his sister.

Richard said nothing.

‘How shall you tell her, Dick?’

‘I can’t tell her!’ he replied, throwing out an arm.  ’How is it likely I can tell her?’

‘And Jane’s so dreadfully bad,’ continued Alice in the undertone.  ’She’s always saying she cares for nothing but to see Emma married.  What shall we do?  And everything seemed so first-rate.  Suppose she summonses you, Dick?’

The noble and dignified legal process whereby maidens right themselves naturally came into Alice’s thoughts.  Her brother scouted the suggestion.

’Emma’s not that kind of girl.  Besides, I’ve told you I shall always send her money.  She’ll find another husband before long.  Lots of men ‘ud be only too glad to marry her.’