He got out his pen, ink, and paper, and then he found that his difficulties were beginning.  I beg that it may be understood that Crosbie was not altogether a villain.  He could not sit down and write a letter as coming from his heart, of which as he wrote it he knew the words to be false.  He was an ungenerous, worldly, inconstant man, very prone to think well of himself, and to give himself credit for virtues which he did not possess; but he could not be false with premeditated cruelty to a woman he had sworn to love.  He could not write an affectionate, warm-hearted letter to Lily, without bringing himself, at any rate for the time, to feel towards her in an affectionate, warm-hearted way.  Therefore he now sat himself to work, while his pen yet remained dry in his hand, to remodel his thoughts, which had been turned against Lily and Allington by the craft of Lady de Courcy.  It takes some time before a man can do this.  He has to struggle with himself in a very uncomfortable way, making efforts which are often unsuccessful.  It is sometimes easier to lift a couple of hundredweights than to raise a few thoughts in one’s mind which at other moments will come galloping in without a whistle.

He had just written the date of his letter when a little tap came at his door, and it was opened.

“I say, Crosbie,” said the Honourable John, “didn’t you say something yesterday about a cigar before dinner?”

“Not a word,” said Crosbie, in rather an angry tone.

“Then it must have been me,” said John.  “But bring your case with you, and come down to the harness-room, if you won’t smoke here.  I’ve had a regular little snuggery fitted up there; and we can go in and see the fellows making up the horses.”

Crosbie wished the Honourable John at the mischief.

“I have letters to write,” said he.  “Besides, I never smoke before dinner.”

“That’s nonsense.  I’ve smoked hundreds of cigars with you before dinner.  Are you going to turn curmudgeon, too, like George and the rest of them?  I don’t know what’s coming to the world!  I suppose the fact is, that little girl at Allington won’t let you smoke.”

“The little girl at Allington—­” began Crosbie; and then he reflected that it would not be well for him to say anything to his present companion about that little girl.  “I’ll tell you what it is,” said he.  “I really have got letters to write which must go by this post.  There’s my cigar-case on the dressing-table.”

“I hope it will be long before I’m brought to such a state,” said John, taking up the cigars in his hand.

“Let me have the case back,” said Crosbie.

“A present from the little girl, I suppose?” said John.  “All right, old fellow! you shall have it.”

“There would be a nice brother-in-law for a man,” said Crosbie to himself, as the door closed behind the retreating scion of the de Courcy family.  And then, again, he took up his pen.  The letter must be written, and therefore he threw himself upon the table, resolved that the words should come and the paper be filled.