his steps suddenly that he might stand still and think of it all.  ’By George, yes!  A man doesn’t go through that kind of thing without losing some of the caloric.  I couldn’t do it again if an angel came in my way.’ he went to his club, and tried to be jolly.  But as he walked home at night, and gave himself time to think over what had taken place with deliberation, he stopped in the gloom of a deserted street and leaning against the rails burst into tears.  He had really loved her and she was never to be his.  He had wanted her—­and it is so painful a thing to miss what you want when you have done your very best to obtain it!  To struggle in vain always hurts the pride; but the wound made by the vain struggle for a woman is sorer than any wound so made.  He gnashed his teeth, and struck the railings with his stick; and then he hurried home, swearing that he would never give another thought to Lily Dale.  In the dead of the night, thinking of it still, he asked himself whether it would not be a fine thing to wait another ten years, and then go to her again.  In such a way would he not make himself immortal as a lover beyond any Jacob or Leander?

The next day he went to his office and was very grave.  When Sir Raffle complimented him on being back before his time, he simply said that when he had accomplished that for which he had gone, he had, of course, come back.  Sir Raffle could not get a word out from him about Mr Crawley.  He was very grave, and intent upon his work.  Indeed he was so serious that he quite afflicted Sir Raffle—­whose mock activity felt itself to be confounded by the official zeal of his private secretary.  During the whole of that day, Johnny was resolving that there could be no cure for his malady but hard work.  He would not only work hard at the office if he remained there, but he would take to heavy reading.  He rather thought that he would go deep into Greek and do a translation, or take up the exact sciences and make a name for himself in that way.  But as he had enough for the life of a secluded literary man without his salary, he rather thought he would give up his office altogether.  He had a mutton chop at home that evening, and spent his time in endeavouring to read out aloud to himself certain passages from the Iliad—­for he had bought a Homer as he returned from his office.  At nine o’clock he went, half-price, to the Strand Theatre.  How he met there his old friend Boulger and went afterwards to ‘The Cock’ and had a supper need not here be told with more accurate detail.

On the evening of the next day he was bound by his appointment to go to Porchester Terrace.  In the moments of his enthusiasm about Homer he had declared to himself that he would never go near Miss Demolines again.  Why should he?  All that kind of thing was nothing to him now.  He would simply send her his compliments and say that he was prevented by business from keeping his engagement.  She, of course, would go on writing to him for a time, but