As he sat in the train, with a newspaper in his hand, he went on acknowledging to himself that he was a villain.  Lady Julia had spoken the truth to him on the stairs at Courcy, and so he confessed over and over again.  But he was chiefly angry with himself for this,—­that he had been a villain without gaining anything by his villainy; that he had been a villain, and was to lose so much by his villainy.  He made comparison between Lily and Alexandrina, and owned to himself, over and over again, that Lily would make the best wife that a man could take to his bosom.  As to Alexandrina, he knew the thinness of her character.  She would stick by him, no doubt; and in a circuitous, discontented, unhappy way, would probably be true to her duties as a wife and mother.  She would be nearly such another as Lady Amelia Gazebee.  But was that a prize sufficiently rich to make him contented with his own prowess and skill in winning it?  And was that a prize sufficiently rich to justify him to himself for his terrible villainy?  Lily Dale he had loved; and he now declared to himself that he could have continued to love her through his whole life.  But what was there for any man to love in Alexandrina de Courcy?

While resolving, during his first four or five days at the castle, that he would throw Lily Dale overboard, he had contrived to quiet his conscience by inward allusions to sundry heroes of romance.  He had thought of Lothario, Don Juan, and of Lovelace; and had told himself that the world had ever been full of such heroes.  And the world, too, had treated such heroes well; not punishing them at all as villains, but caressing them rather, and calling them curled darlings.  Why should not he be a curled darling as well as another?  Ladies had ever been fond of the Don Juan character, and Don Juan had generally been popular with men also.  And then he named to himself a dozen modern Lotharios,—­men who were holding their heads well above water, although it was known that they had played this lady false, and brought that other one to death’s door, or perhaps even to death itself.  War and love were alike, and the world was prepared to forgive any guile to militants in either camp.

But now that he had done the deed he found himself forced to look at it from quite another point of view.  Suddenly that character of Lothario showed itself to him in a different light, and one in which it did not please him to look at it as belonging to himself.  He began to feel that it would be almost impossible for him to write that letter to Lily, which it was absolutely necessary that he should write.  He was in a position in which his mind would almost turn itself to thoughts of self-destruction as the only means of escape.  A fortnight ago he was a happy man, having everything before him that a man ought to want; and now—­now that he was the accepted son-in-law of an earl, and the confident expectant of high promotion—­he was the most miserable, degraded wretch in the world!