His anger gave way first to misery,
and then to a panic of fear. Suppose she took him literally--though he
had meant every word when he said it--suppose he lost her? What would the
rest of his life be worth to him, alone, haunted, not only by his
senseless folly in casting away such a precious treasure, but by his
ingratitude, his presumption, and his own unworthiness? A dozen times he
started towards her house, only to turn back again. She _hadn't_ been
fair. They _couldn't_ be happy that way. If he gave in now, he would have
to do it all the rest of his life, and she would despise him for it. As
the time which he had stipulated went by, and no message came, he
suffered more and more intensely--hoped, savagely, that she was
suffering, too, and decided that she could not be, or that he would have
heard from her; but resolved, more and more decidedly, with every hour
that passed, that he would fight this battle out to the bitter end.
It was even later than usual when he came in on the night of the ball,
and when he entered, every one in the house was hurrying about in the
inevitable confusion which precedes a "great occasion.
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