Had Sir Austin given vent to the pain and wrath it was natural he should feel, he might have gone to unphilosophic excesses, and, however much he lowered his reputation as a sage, Lady Blandish would have excused him:  she would not have loved him less for seeing him closer.  But the poor gentleman tasked his soul and stretched his muscles to act up to her conception of him.  He, a man of science in life, who was bound to be surprised by nothing in nature, it was not for him to do more than lift his eyebrows and draw in his lips at the news delivered by Ripton Thompson, that ill bird at Raynham.

All he said, after Ripton had handed the letters and carried his penitential headache to bed, was:  “You see, Emmeline, it is useless to base any system on a human being.”

A very philosophical remark for one who has been busily at work building for nearly twenty years.  Too philosophical to seem genuine.  It revealed where the blow struck sharpest.  Richard was no longer the Richard of his creation—­his pride and his joy—­but simply a human being with the rest.  The bright star had sunk among the mass.

And yet, what had the young man done?  And in what had the System failed?

The lady could not but ask herself this, while she condoled with the offended father.

“My friend,” she said, tenderly taking his hand before she retired, “I know how deeply you must be grieved.  I know what your disappointment must be.  I do not beg of you to forgive him now.  You cannot doubt his love for this young person, and according to his light, has he not behaved honourably, and as you would have wished, rather than bring her to shame?  You will think of that.  It has been an accident—­a misfortune—­a terrible misfortune"...

“The God of this world is in the machine—­not out of it,” Sir Austin interrupted her, and pressed her hand to get the good-night over.

At any other time her mind would have been arrested to admire the phrase; now it seemed perverse, vain, false, and she was tempted to turn the meaning that was in it against himself, much as she pitied him.

“You know, Emmeline,” he added, “I believe very little in the fortune, or misfortune, to which men attribute their successes and reverses.  They are useful impersonations to novelists; but my opinion is sufficiently high of flesh and blood to believe that we make our own history without intervention.  Accidents?—­Terrible misfortunes?—­What are they?—­Good-night.”

“Good-night,” she said, looking sad and troubled.  “When I said, ‘misfortune,’ I meant, of course, that he is to blame; but—­shall I leave you his letter to me?”

“I think I have enough to meditate upon,” he replied, coldly bowing.

“God bless you,” she whispered.  “And—­may I say it? do not shut your heart.”

He assured her that he hoped not to do so and the moment she was gone he set about shutting it as tight as he could.