He made his way to the very seat upon which he had sat once before with Beatrice.

With folded arms he leaned back in the corner, looking out across the river, at the curving line of lights, at the black, turgid waters, the slowly-moving hulk of a barge on its way down the stream.

It was a new thing, this, for him to have to accuse himself of folly, of weakness.

For the last few days he had moved in a mist of uncertainty, setting his heel upon all reflection, avoiding every issue.
To-night he could escape those accusing thoughts no longer; to-night he was more than ever bitter with himself.

What folly was this which had sprung up in his life--folly colossal, unimaginable, as unexpected as though it had fallen a thunderbolt from the skies! What had happened to change him so completely! His thought traveled back to the boarding-house.