I thought to promote thee unto great honor, but, lo, the Lord hath kept thee back from honor.—Numbers.  
At the moment when Lettice and Dorothea were sitting down to bread and salt in Canning Street, Denis was leaning over a rustic bridge in the garden of Mrs. Byrne's week-end cottage.
 
By what difficult, obscure, and tortuous paths he had been wandering in those days he could not have told, nor could any one have followed. Dorothea had done him the worst injury; she had broken his faith. His love and his religion were so closely intertwined that they fell together, with a crash that numbed sensation. The world turned gray and all the lamps went out. If he could not believe in God, Denis could believe in nothing and love nothing. He did not know what was wrong with him; he was not actively and consciously unhappy, but he was bored—sick of himself, sick of his work, sick of all he had been and done in all his life before.
 
He stayed on at Bredon from force of habit, because it was too much trouble to make up his mind to go elsewhere. The trial at Westby broke this routine; and the heavy sentence on his friend, outraging his sense of justice, snapped another of the links that held him to his former life. What was the good of virtue, he asked himself (seriously, as a novel idea), if this was to be its reward? What had he ever got by it himself? Why shouldn't he try pleasure for a change? Why not, indeed? Conscience made no protest; that was one of the lamps which had gone out. When he left Westby he did not go back to Bredon; he[Pg 196] stayed in town, with the deliberate intention of "seeing life."
 
In pursuit of this ambition he visited music halls, which he regarded as temples of gay vice, and tried to cultivate the more frivolous of his male acquaintance, and even went so far as to put in an appearance at a night club—and was more profoundly bored than ever. One evening he laid himself out conscientiously to get drunk. This was not a success; it ended in a bilious attack and a long distaste for whisky. Another time he sat down to play "chimmy" with the most inveterate gamblers he knew. Beginner's luck helped him at first to win five pounds, which didn't excite him; then he lost twenty, and was disproportionately annoyed. Nature had not cut out Denis for a roué. He did not amuse himself or any one else. Even Bredon and the seaplane were better than this. He would have given up and gone back to them in despair, if he had not happened to fall in with Mrs. Byrne.
 
She was sitting in her car in a lonely lane at ten o'clock at night when he saw her first, weeping tears of rage because her chauffeur had sunk down, snoring drunk, and she could not stir him. Such things did happen to Mrs. Byrne. Denis came to the rescue; he ejected the chauffeur by the wayside, and took the lady home himself. She was very grateful, and invited him to dinner. It was a pleasant house, and one met amusing people—literary, artistic, a little out of the usual set which had bored Denis so desperately. He liked his pretty, feather-witted hostess, too, and she liked him; indeed, before long it was plain that she more than liked him. It was not plain to Denis, who remained virtuously stiff as a ramrod long after the clubs were betting on Byrne's chance of bringing off his divorce this time. Mrs. Byrne had fallen headlong in love, and she was incapable of discretion.
 
When at last the truth dawned on Denis, his first impulse was to bolt. But he did not allow himself to do so. He stayed on, deliberately exposing himself to temptation in the hope that it would tempt him. He found it a hard struggle to be wicked. So far, then, Lettice was right; he[Pg 197] had not yet committed himself. She was right, too, in thinking that the scene at Olympia would decide things one way or another. Denis believed himself to be quite indifferent to Dorothea; yet her face (he could not have said how) had given him the slight deciding push, and he returned to Mrs. Byrne with his mind made up.
 
The brook by which he stood, patched with silver by the young March moon, found its way between bronze-stemmed alders, past willows cloudy in pollen-yellow, under banks where the kingcups spread their nosegays of burnished green and gold. Violets, invisible but sweet, clustered at the root of every rose. The scene was set for lovers, and Denis had been making love. Did he do it well? It might have been worse. There had been opposition to overcome, unexpected, stimulating: Evey Byrne with a conscience, forsooth! Denis had tasted the first-fruits of pleasure in crushing down her scruples and making her own she loved him. He had wrung out the confession without mercy. She tried to hold him off with her weak little hands against his breast.
 
"Ah, but ye don't truly love me, Denis!"
 
"Don't I?" said Denis, kissing her fawn-soft eyes and sweet, half-reluctant lips.
 
"Ah, but 'tis so wicked! God'll never forgive us!"
 
"There is no God that counts," Denis answered. He kissed her again. He had no idea that in his heart he was kissing Dorothea.
 
That was ten minutes ago. Was it time yet? Hardly, he decided; he might allow himself to finish his cigar. Alas! out of her presence the blaze had all too quickly died down. Mrs. Byrne was sweet, but she bored him like ever............