Romer went back to his hotel that evening feeling happier than he had ever expected to be again. He felt sure now that everything would be perfectly right. He refused to allow himself to dwell for a moment on possibilities, and on what had been, or on what might have been. But he was like a man who had been slightly stunned by a blow on the head and was beginning to feel the pain the next day. Yet the pain was not very acute; he did not quite realise it, but, unconsciously, it made him feverish. And he was still a little stupefied. It did not occur to him to go to the Club, or to look up any friends, and he remained in the little hotel in Jermyn Street, filled at this time of the year principally by Americans, and he dined alone there—dined well, and smoked a long cigar. Then he went for a walk. London at the beginning of August was not empty, but stale, crowded, untidy, hot—unlike itself. He tried not to think of the garden of the Green Gate. Suddenly, with a stab, he imagined Harry and Valentia; probably now he was telling her that the engagement was broken off, and she was smiling and happy. Well! it was what he wished. Since what had happened he felt his great love for Valentia was much less vivid than it had been. He cared for her more remotely. She seemed at a great distance. He thought that he felt more to her as if she were a dear sister and living far away. Yes, that was it; he loved her now like a sister.

Surprised at his own calm, and much pleased with his behaviour in the matter, he retired to bed. The instant he had closed his eyes he seemed to see, with the clearness of an hallucination, Harry's head bending low over the writing-table, and, hanging above him on the wall of the studio, the curious dagger; a Japanese weapon that was one of Harry's treasures. And Romer felt again precisely the same horrible longing that he had felt that morning at the studio—the sudden longing to plunge it into Harry's neck. Horrified at the fancy and at himself, he turned up the light and tried to read. He could not fix his attention on a word of the article "Silk and Stuff" in the Pall Mall....

Of course he was not angry with Valentia; how could she help it? She must be made happy. But she seemed dim, distant, remote. It was an effort to recall her face.... Harry—Harry did not seem very real to him either. It was all unreal. But he, Romer, had done the right thing. Harry would never make her cry again.

Everything would go on as before. And he had never said a word that it would be painful for them both to remember. There was nothing uncomfortable between them. He felt she would grow tired of Harry of her own accord, and would then return to him, Romer, with no disagreeable recollection of scenes, nor of their having said horrible things to one another. Yes, he had been quite right. Yet she did not seem to him so near as she used to be. He was not angry with her.... No, of course not. He was not jealous. Perhaps she seemed more remote, more distant, because he felt a certain coldness, and—yes—the coldness was there because he was a little hurt perhaps.... And then he tried to go to sleep again. But instantly his insane vision came back, and he got up and walked round the room and tried to banish it.... At last he really went to sleep, and awoke trembling with horror. He had had a horrible dream. He dreamt that Harry was writing a letter, and that he had taken the dagger from the wall of the studio and killed him. This was simply horrible.

Then he began to realise the reason. It was subconscious jealousy. Then he saw that he had set himself a task too big for him, and that he could not endure to see Harry with Valentia now. It would be impossible to bear it. He would have to tell him to go. He had mistaken his own feelings. What he had heard on the verandah, what he had imagined, could never be obliterated. Indeed, he saw clearly that if he tried to endure it he would break down. The effort would lead to madness.—It was impossible.... He had sent Harry back to her! He had actually sent him; it was unbearable.

He would go back the next day, take Harry aside, and tell him that he had found he couldn't bear it, and that on some pretext he must go away. He would tell him that he had reached the limit of his endurance and could bear no more. He would never speak of it to Valentia. Valentia would be sad—but that could not be helped. He knew, now, that he could not endure the sight of Harry again.

Having made this resolution, he became much calmer. But the dream recurred each time he went to sleep until, in dread of it, he resolved to sleep no more. His nerves felt shattered.

And then, he began to count the minutes till he could be back at the Green Gate. To see Valentia again and to banish Harry for ever! And all the obvious, human feelings that he thought he was free from had come back. He broke down; bitter tears of self-pity, of sentiment, and of heartbroken humiliation fell from his eyes. He remembered their engagement and their honeymoon, and then the eternal and everlasting amusing cousin; Harry, and his sickening good looks and ceaseless chatter. No more of it, by heaven! It would be something worth having lived for to have no more of the brilliant Harry. He saw now that he had always been subconsciously jealous of him—that he had always loathed and hated him. And rightly, by instinct; for not only had he done the most unpardonable injury one friend can do to another, without a scruple and without a hesitation, but he had shown the same baseness to her. He made her unhappy. He made her cry. He wanted to marry for money and come back again, treacherous to every one—hard, heartless, selfish, vulgar in mind and in attitude to life. Romer hated him.

Well! Romer would tell him that very day that he had changed his mind and that he was to go anywhere—anyhow—only to go. Neither he nor Valentia should ever see him again.

Valentia seemed a long way off. She seemed remote and distant. That was because he was still hurt and angry. When Harry had once gone, perhaps she would seem near again.