And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. “What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. 27 Her beloved mother Marina was the first in the house to catch it, the first to die. Considering his convictions he felt that his remark was a generous one. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean.
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