It was he, then, who had been unfaithful & impatient, & she who had loved on through all, to this cruel end. Thus he reproached himself, as the hopeless cloud of grief closed around him once more. I know not what wild temptations hurried through his mind in that terrible night’s struggle. A faint fore-hint of dawn was climbing the gray Orient when at last he threw himself on his bed to seize a few hours sleep before he brought the resolutions of this night into action. He had decided that come what would, he must see Georgie at once—even though it were for the last time, & only to return into the deeper desolation which his error had brought upon him. In this last revolution of feeling he had almost entirely lost sight of the fact that Georgie was dying, & that even in the case of his being free, their parting was inevitable. It seemed to him now that his madness (as he called it in his hopeless self-reproach) had alone exiled him from a renewed life of love & peace with the girl of his heart. He had forgotten, in the whirl of despairing grief, that the shadow of the Angel of Death fell sternly between him & Georgie. When after a short, unrestful sleep he rose & dressed, the morning sun was high over Rome; & he found he had no time to lose if he should attempt to start for Civita Vecchia by the early train. He would not breakfast, but thinking that the early air might freshen him for his long journey, walked immediatly to the Grahams’ apartment. He had meant to ask for Mr. Graham, but when he reached the door his heart failed, & he merely told the servant he would not disturb him. Taking one of his cards, he wrote on it hurriedly in pencil: “I am called suddenly to Nice for a few days. Cannot tell when I will be back. Start this morning via Civita Vecchia.” He left this for Madeline, knowing that any more elaborate explanation of the object of his journey would be useless; & an hour later he was on his way to Civita Vecchia to meet a steamer to Genoa. The weary, interminable hours drew slowly towards the night; but it seemed to Hastings that the sad journey would never come to an end. When he reached Nice the next morning after a day & a night of steady travel, the strain of thought & fatigue had been so great that he was scarcely conscious of his surroundings, & having driven to the nearest Hôtel went at once up to his room to rest, if indeed rest were possible. A blinding headache had come on, & he was glad to lie on the bed with his windows darkened until the afternoon. He had almost lost the power of thinking now; a dull, heavy weight of anguish seemed to press down destroying all other sensation. When at last he felt strong enough to rouse himself, he rang for a servant & enquired for Lady Breton’s villa in the hope that someone in the Hôtel might direct him thither—for poor Georgie, in her hasty note, had forgotten to give her address. Lord Breton’s death had made too much noise in Nice for his residence to remain unknown; but Guy, not feeling as well as he had fancied, sat down & wrote a few lines asking when he should find Georgie prepared for him—& despatched these by the servant. It was a great relief when, about an hour later, a note was brought back in the meek, ladylike handwriting of Mrs. Rivers, who had of course joined her daughter on Lord Breton’s death. Dear Guy, it ran,

We think our darling Georgie is a little better today, but not strong enough to see you. If she is no worse tomorrow, can you come in the afternoon at about four o’clock? This is a time of great anxiety for us all, which I am sure you must share. My poor child longs to see you. Your loving Cousin, M.A. Rivers.

Hastings scarcely knew how that miserable day passed. He had intended writing to Mr. Graham, but he had lost all power of self-direction, & the one absorbing thought that pressed upon him drowned every lesser duty in its vortex of hopeless pain.