The hours had never pressed upon him with such demand for resolution.  In the look with which Sidwell greeted him when he met her in the drawing-room, he seemed to read much more than wonted friendliness; it was as though a half secret already existed between them.  But no occasion offered for a word other than trivial.  The dinner-party consisted of about a score of people, and throughout the evening Peak found himself hopelessly severed from the one person whose presence was anything but an importunity to him.  He maddened with jealousy, with fear, with ceaseless mental manoeuvring.  More than one young man of agreeable aspect appeared to be on dangerous terms with Sidwell, approaching her with that air of easy, well-bred intimacy which Godwin knew too well he would never be able to assume in perfection.  Again he was humiliated by self-comparison with social superiors, and again reminded that in this circle he had a place merely on sufferance.  Mrs. Warricombe, when he chanced to speak with her, betrayed the slight regard in which she really held him, and Martin devoted himself to more important people.  The evening was worse than lost.

Yet in two more days Sidwell would be beyond reach.  He writhed upon his bed as the image of her loveliness returned again and again,—­ her face as she conversed at table, her dignity as she rose with the other ladies, her smile when he said good-night.  A smile that meant more than civility; he was convinced of it.  But memory would not support him through half-a-year of solitude and ill-divining passion.

He would write to her, and risk all.  Two o’clock in the morning saw him sitting half-dressed at the table, raging over the difficulties of a composition which should express his highest self.  Four o’clock saw the blotched letter torn into fragments.  He could not write as he wished, could not hit the tone of manly appeal.  At five o’clock he turned wretchedly into bed again.

A day of racking headache; then the long restful sleep which brings good counsel.  It was well that he had not sent a letter, nor in any other way committed himself.  If Sidwell were ever to be his wife, the end could only be won by heroic caution and patience.  Thus far he had achieved notable results; to rush upon his aim would be the most absurd departure from a hopeful scheme gravely devised and pursued.  To wait, to establish himself in the confidence of this family, to make sure his progress step by step, that was the course indicated from the first by his calm reason.  Other men might triumph by sudden audacity; for him was no hope save in slow, persevering energy of will.  Passion had all but ruined him; now he had recovered self-control.

Sidwell’s six months in London might banish him from her mind, might substitute some rival against whom it would be hopeless to contend.  Yes; but a thousand possibilities stood with menace in the front of every great enterprise.  Before next spring he might be dead.