This was the second death which had upon Piers Otway the ageing effect known to all men capable of thoughts about mortality.  The loss of his father marked for him the end of irresponsible years; he entered upon manhood with that grief blended of reverence and affection.  By the grave of Mrs. Hannaford (he stood there only after the burial) he was touched again by the advancing shadow of life’s dial, and it marked the end of youth.  For youth is a term relative to heart and mind.  At six-and-twenty many a man has of manhood only the physique; many another is already falling through experience to a withered age.  Piers had the sense of transition; the middle years were opening before him.  The tears he shed for his friend were due in part to the poignant perception of utter severance with boyhood.  But a few weeks ago, talking with Mrs. Hannaford, he could revive the spirit of those old days at Geneva, feel his identity with the Piers Otway of that time.  It would never be within his power again.  He might remember, but memory showed another than himself.

A note from John Jacks summoned him to Queen’s Gate.  Not till afterwards did he understand that Mr. Jacks’ real motive in sending for him was to get light upon the rupture between Arnold and Miss Derwent.  Piers’ astonishment at what he heard caused his friend to quit the subject.

In the night that followed, Piers for the first time in his life felt the possibility of base action.  The experience has come to all men, and, whatever the result, always leaves its mark.  Looking at the fact of Irene’s broken engagement, he could explain it only in one way; the cause must be Mrs. Hannaford—­the doubt as to her behaviour, the threatened scandal.  Idle to attempt surmises as to the share of either side in what had come about; the difference had been sufficiently grave to part them.  And this parting was to him a joy which shook his whole being.  He could have raised a song of exultation.

And in his hands lay complete evidence of the dead woman’s guiltlessness.  To produce it was possibly to reconcile Arnold Jacks and Irene.  Viewed by his excited mind, the possible became certain; he evolved a whole act of drama between those two, turning on prejudices, doubts, scruples natural in their position; he saw the effect of their enlightenment.  Was it a tempting thought, that he could give Irene back again into her bridegroom’s arms.

It brought sweat to his forehead; it shook him with the fierce torture of a jealous imagination.  He fortified base suggestion by the natural revolt of his flesh.  Once had he passed through the fire; to suffer that ordeal again was beyond human endurance.  Irene was free.  He paced the room, repeating wildly that Irene was free.  And the mere fact of her freedom proved that she did not love the man—­so it seemed to him, in his subordination of every motive to that passionate impulse.  To him it brought no hope—­what of that!  Irene did not belong to another man.