I returned to Oxford. My rooms at Lazarus were in Fellows’ Quad—one was a big room in which I lived and worked, the other was a small bedroom leading out of it. My windows overlooked the smooth lawns and gravel paths of the college garden. Flowers were over, hanging crumpled and brown on their withered stalks. Here and there, a solitary late-blooming rose shone faintly. The garden stood upon the city-wall, overlooking the meadows of the Broad Walk. Every evening white mists from the river invaded it, billowing across the open spaces, breaking against the shrubs, climbing higher and higher, till the tops of the trees were covered. Sitting beside my fire I could hear the leaves rustle, and turning my head could see them falling.

The ceiling of my living-room was low; the walls were paneled in white from bottom to top. The furniture was covered in warm red. The hearth was deep and the fender of polished steel, which reflected the glow of the coals when the day drew near its close. It was a room in which to sit quietly, to think, and to grow drowsy.

It was October when I returned. Meadows were turning from green to ash-color. Virginia-creeper flared like scarlet flame against pale walls. The contented melancholy of the austere city was healing. It cured feverishness by turning one’s thoughts away from the present. In its stoic calm it was like an old man—one who had grown indifferent to the world’s changefulness. In healthy contrast to its ancientness was the exuberant youth of the undergrads.

Most grief arises from a thwarted sense of one’s own importance. Here, among broken records of the past, the impermanence of physical existence was written plainly.

Defaced hopes of the ages encountered one at every corner. Of all the men who had wrought here, nothing but the best of what they had thought stood fast; their personalities, the fashion of their daily lives were lost beneath the dust of decades. No place could have been found better in which to doctor a wounded heart.

Through the winter that followed Vi’s departure, the new conception I had of her nobility upheld me. I could not sink beneath her standard of honor. When the temptation to write to her came over me, I shamed myself into setting it aside.

I recognized now what would have been the inevitable penalty, had we followed our inclination that night. Only the madness of the moment could have blinded me to its result. We should have become persons cast off by society—insecure even in our claim on one another’s affections, continually fleeing from the lean greyhound of remorse. Never for a day should we have been permitted to forget the irregularity of our relation. We should have been continually apologizing for our fault. We should have been continually hiding from curious, unfriendly eyes. The shame with which other people regarded us would have re-acted on our characters. And then there was Dorrie! She would have had to know one day.

We had the man by the harbor and “Lady Hallo way” to thank for our escape. The strange combination of influences they had exerted at our hour of crisis, had saved us.

Black moments came when I gazed ahead into the vacant future. I must go through life without her. Unless some circumstance unforeseen should arise, we would never meet again. Then I felt that, to possess her, no price of disgrace would be too high to pay.

I trained myself like an athlete to defeat the despair which such thoughts occasioned. I tried to banish her from my mind. In my conscious moments I succeeded by keeping myself occupied. But in sleep she came to me in all manner of intimate and forbidden ways.

I crowded my hours with work that I might keep true to my purpose. And yet this method of fighting, when analyzed, consisted chiefly in running away. I took up tutorial duties at my college. I commenced to make studies for a biography of that typical genius of the Renaissance, half libertine, half mystic, ?neas Sylvius Piccolomini, known to history in his old age as Pope Pius IL I tried to fill up my leisure with new friendships. In none of these things could I become truly interested. My thoughts were crossing the ocean. When I was deepest in study I would start, hearing her voice, sharp and poignant.

One afternoon I was sitting with my chair drawn up to the hearth, my feet on the fender, a board across my knees, trying to write. A tap fell on the door. Lord Halloway entered.

He took a seat on the other side of the fireplace. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you for some time,” he said, “wanting to explain.”

“Wanting to explain what?”

“Myself in general. You don’t like me; I think you’re mistaken. I’m not the man I was.”

“But why should you explain to me?”

“Because I like you.”

“Don’t see why you should. Woadley’s probably coming to me—which you once thought was to be yours.”

“That doesn’t worry me. I’ll have the Lovegrove estates when my father dies. But I don’t like to feel that any man despises me—it hampers a chap in trying to do right. You pass me in the quads with a nod, and hurry as you go by so that I shan’t stop you. Why?”

“Want to know the truth?”

“Yes.”

“It’s because of the woman they call ‘Lady Halloway’ and all the other girls you’ve ruined.”

“I thought it. That was why I wanted to tell you that I’m done with that way of life. I was a colossal ass in the old days. But, you know, a good many fellows have been what I was, and they’ve married, and settled down and become respected.”

“And what of the girls they’ve ruined?”

He leant forward, clasping his hands and spreading his knees apart. “You’re blaming me for the injustices of society. Women have always had to suffer. But I’ve always done the sportsmanlike thing by the girls I’ve wronged. All of them are provided for.”

“These things are your own affairs,” I said shortly; “but I’ve always felt——”

“Felt what?”

“Felt that the most disreputable thing about most prodigals is the method of their returning. They leave all the women they’ve deceived and all their bastards in the Far Country with the swine and the husks, while they hobble home to forgiveness and luxury. Simply because they acknowledge the obvious—that they’ve sinned and disgraced their fathers—they expect to escape the rewards of their profligacy. It’s cheap, Halloway. You speak as though marriage will re-instate your morals. A man should be able to bring a clean record to the woman he marries.” The off-hand manner in which he referred to his villainies had made me cold with a sense of justice. His lolling, fashionably attired person and his glib assertion that he had done with that way of life, roused my anger when I remembered his idiot son and the scene on the esplanade. He regarded me with a friendly man-of-the-world smile, pointing his delicate fingers one against the other. I would have liked him better had he shown resentment.

“You make things hard,” he objected. “If everyone thought as you do, there’d be no incentive for reformation. The man who had been a little wild would never be anything else. According to your way of thinking, he’d be more estimable as a rake than as the father of a family. You shut the door against all coming back.”

He spoke reasonably, trying to lift what had started as a personal attack, on to the impartial plane of a sociological discussion.

“It’s the unfairness of it that irks me,” I said. “You tempt a girl and leave her to her disgrace. She bears both her own and your share of the scandal, while you scramble back into respectability. If you brought her back with you, I shouldn’t object. But, after you’ve persuaded her to go down into the pit, you draw up the ladder and walk away.”

He gave his high-pitched laugh. “That’s how the world’s made. It’s none of my doing. If I married one of these girls, neither of us would be happy. One of these days I shall be Earl of Lovegrove. They’re better as they are. You know that, surely?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then, why prevent me, when I’m trying to get on to higher ground? I know I’ve been a rotter. I’ve made a mess of things. I don’t need anyone to remind me.”

I held out my hand, saying, “I’ve been censorious. I’m sorry.”

After this he dropped in often to see me. He was coaching the Lazarus toggers that autumn; his usual time for calling was between four and five, on his way up from the river. I got to know him well and to look for him. His big robustness and high color filled the student atmosphere of my room with an air of outdoor vitality. He was always cheerful. And yet I could not get away from the idea that he was making use of me for some undisclosed purpose.

He was an egoist at heart—a charming egoist. Much of his conversation turned about himself. “Now that you know me better, do you still think that I’m barred from marriage?” he would ask.

“All kinds of people marry. It still seems unfair to me that, after knocking about the way you have, you should marry anyone who doesn’t know the world pretty thoroughly.”

“You mean I’m tarnished and should marry a woman who is tarnished. You don’t understand me, Cardover. My very knowledge of evil makes me worship feminine purity.”

It was difficult to regard Lord Halloway as tarnished when you looked at his splendid body. His healthy physical handsomeness seemed an excuse for his transgressions. He upset all your ideas of the degrading influences of immorality.

After Christmas I had Ruthita down to stay at Oxford. We were walking along the tow-path towards Iffley on the afternoon of her arrival, when the Lazarus Eight went by. Halloway was mounted, riding along the bank, shouting orders to the cox. As he passed us, he recognized Ruthita. I saw her color flame up. She halted abruptly, following him with her eyes round the bend of the river.

“Shall we meet them again if we go on?”

I told her we should be certain to meet them, as they would turn at Iffley Lock.

“But I don’t want to meet them.” Then, in a whisper, “I’m afraid of him, Dante.”

We retraced our steps to Folly Bridge and walked out to Hinksey to avoid him.

“You’re an odd little creature, Ruthie. Why on earth should you be afraid of him? He can’t do you any harm.”

“It’s his eyes. When he looks at me so hard, I forget all that I know about him, and begin to like him. And then, when he’s gone, I come to myself and feel humiliated.”

Now that I had found someone who would run him down, I changed sides and began to plead his cause. “Seems to me it’s a bit rough on the chap to remember his old faults. He’s quite changed.”

“But the woman at Ransby hasn’t,” she retorted bitterly. “He didn’t leave her a chance.”

It was pleasant having Ruthita with me. I liked to hear the swish of her skirts as she walked, and to feel the light pressure of her hand upon my arm. She spoke with her face tilted up to mine. It was such a tiny face, so emotional and innocent. The frost in the air had brought a color to her cheeks and a luster to her hair. She loved to make me feel that she was my possession for the moment; I knew that I pleased her when I used her as though she were all mine. We treated one another with frank affection.

“D’you ever hear from Vi?” she asked.

“Never.”

“It was awfully strange the way she left Ransby—so suddenly, without saying good-by. I had just one little note from her before she sailed; that was all. I’ve written to her several times since then, but she’s never answered.”

I turned the subject by saying, “What’s this about Uncle Obad? Is he giving up the boarding-house?”

“Yes, he’s going down into Surrey to raise fowls. He’s already got his farm. Aunt Lavinia’s wild about it.”

“But where does he get his money?”

“Nobody knows, and he refuses to tell. Papa says that he must have found another Rapson.”

“But he isn’t selling shares again, is he?”

“Oh dear no. He’s become wonderfully independent, and says he doesn’t need to make his poultry pay. It’s just a hobby.”

“Dear old chap! I hope he doesn’t come another cropper.”

“He says he can’t, but he won’t explain why. And d’you know, I believe he’s given Papa back the two thousand pounds that he lost.”

“I don’t believe it. What makes you think that?”

“Because Papa’s stopped talking against him, and because I caught him looking up those guide-books to Italy again.”

We turned off from the Abingdon Road and curved round to the left through the sheep-farms of Hinksey. Hedges bristled bare on either side. Uplands rose bleak against the steely sky. Rutted lanes were brittle beneath our feet, crusted over here and there with ice. On thatched roofs of cottages sparrows squatted with ruffled feathers. Icicles hung down from spouts. The lambing season was just commencing. As we drew near farms the warm smell of sheep packed close together assailed our nostrils. From far and wide a constant, distressful bleating went up. Quickly and silently, rising out of the ground, dropping down from the sky, darkness closed in about us. In the cup of the valley, with the river sweeping round it, lay Oxford with its glistening towers and church spires. Little pin-points of fire sprang up, shining hard and frosty through the winter’s shadows. They raced through the city, as though a hundred lamp-lighters had wakened at once and were making up for lost time. Soon the somber mass was a blazing jewel, flinging up a golden blur into the night.

Ruthita hugged my arm. “Doesn’t it make you glad to be alive? I’m never so happy as when I’m alone with you, Dante. It isn’t what we say that does it. It’s just being near one another.”

She spoke like a child, groping after words, feeling far more than she could ever utter. But I knew what she meant. The woman in her was striving. Just as her flowerlike womanhood, unfolding itself to me secretly, made me hungry for Vi, so my masculinity stung her into wistful eagerness for a man’s affection.

“You’re a queer little kiddie. What you need’s a husband. I shall be frightfully jealous of him. At first I shall almost hate him.”

“If you hated him, I shouldn’t marry him. Besides, I don’t believe I shall ever marry.”

We trudged back to Oxford in a gay mood, carrying on a bantering conversation. When we had entered Lazarus, I left her at the lodge, telling her to go to Fellows’ Quad while I ordered tea at the pantry. As I approached my rooms, I heard the sound of voices. Opening the door, I saw the lamp had not been lit. By the flare of the fire, I made out the profile of Ruthita as she leant back in the arm-chair, resting her feet on the fender. Standing up, looking down on her, with his arm against the mantelshelf was Lord Halloway.

He glanced towards me in his careless fashion. “This is quite the pleasantest thing that could have happened. I’ve often thought about the drive to Woadley and wondered whether we three should ever meet all together again.” Then, turning to Ruthita, “Your brother’s so secretive, Miss Cardover. He never breathed a word about your coming.”

“My sister’s name is not Cardover,” I corrected him.

He drew himself to his full height languidly. “I must apologize for having misnamed you, Miss—Miss——”

“My name is Favart,” put in Ruthita.

“Isn’t it strange,” he asked, “that a brother and sister should be named differently?”

Then I had another illustration of how he could draw out women’s confidence. Ruthita had just run three miles in the opposite direction to avoid him, yet here she was eagerly telling him many things that were most intimate—all about her father and the Siege of Paris, and how I climbed the wall and discovered her, and how we had run off to get married and stayed with the gipsies in the forest.

The tea-boy came and set crumpets and muffins down by the hearth. I lit the lamp. Still they went on talking, referring to me occasionally, but paying little heed to my presence.

The bell began to toll for Hall.

Halloway rose. “How long are you going to be in Oxford, Miss Favart?”

“That depends on Dante, and how long he will have me.

“Then you’re staying a little while?”

“Yes.”

“I ask, because I’d like to take Cardover and yourself out driving. I have my horses in Oxford and you ought to see some of the country.”

“That depends on Dante.”

“We’ll talk it over to-morrow,” I said brusquely.

For the next few days, wherever we went we were unaccountably coming across Halloway. He always expressed surprise at meeting us, and always made himself delightful after we had met. If we walked out to Cumnor, or Sandford or Godstow, it made no difference in which direction, we were sure to hear the sharp trit-trotting of his tandem, and to see his high red dog-cart gaining on us above the hedges. Then he would rein up, with a display of amazed pleasure at these repeated accidents, and insist on our mounting beside him. Ruthita told me that she was annoyed at the way he broke up our privacy; but her annoyance was saved entirely for his absence. In his company she allowed him to absorb her.

I had accompanied Ruthita back to the Mitre, where she was staying. It was her last night. On returning to my rooms, I found Halloway waiting. I was surprised, for the hour was late. I noticed that his manner was unusually serious and pre-occupied for such an habitual trifler. When I had mixed him a whiskey and soda, I sat down and watched him. He tapped his teeth with his thumbnail.

I grew restless. “What is it?” I asked. “Something on your mind?”

“Don’t know how to express it. You’ve made it difficult for me.”

“How?”

“By the things you’ve said from time to time. You see, it’s this way. Until I met Miss Favart I was quite unashamed of myself. Her purity and goodness made me view myself in a new light. Since then I’ve tried to retrieve my past to some extent. Of course, I can never be worthy of her, but——”

“Worthy of her! I don’t understand.” I leant forward in my chair, frowning.

“You do understand,” he said quietly. “You must have guessed it from the first. I’m in love with her and intend to make her my wife.”

“Intend!” I repeated.

He rose to his feet, as though willing to show me his fine body, and began to pace the room with the stealthy tread of a panther. He kept his eyes on mine. When he spoke there was a purring determination in his voice.

“Yes, intend. I’ve always had my way with women. You’ll see; I shan’t fail this time. I may have to wait, perhaps.”

“Halloway,” I said, “I don’t suppose you’re capable of realizing how decent people feel about you. Of course there are many men who disguise their feelings when they see you trying to do better. But very few of those same men would introduce you to their sisters, or daughters, or wives. To put it plainly, they’d feel they were insulting them. So now you know how I feel about what you’ve just told me.”

He paused above me, looking down with an amused smile.

“My dear Cardover, that’s just what I expected from you. You virgin men are so brutally honest where your ideals are concerned—so hopelessly evasive in facing up to realities. Don’t you know that life is a coarse affair? I’ve lived it naturally—most strong men have at some time. I’ve been open in what I’ve done. Everybody knows the worst there is to know about me. Most men do these things in secret. I couldn’t be secret and preserve my self-respect. Skeletons in the cupboard ar’n’t much in my line. Ruthita knows me at my wickedest now; when she knows me at my best, she’ll love me.”

“When my sister marries,” I said coldly, “it’ll be to a man who can bring her something better than the dregs of his debaucheries.”

He gave his foolish laugh. “That’s a new name for the Lovegrove titles. I’d better be going. If I stay longer, you may make me angry.”

I rose to see him take his departure. He had passed out and gone a few steps down the passage, when I heard him returning. The door just opened wide enough for him to look in on me. “My dear Cardover,” he said, “I came back to remind you of another of those evasive realities. You know, she isn’t your sister.”

A week later I received an indignant letter from Ruthita, saying that Lord Halloway had been to Pope Lane to see ............