Thinking of Barode Barouche, he had a great bitterness.

"To treat any woman so--how glad I am I fought him! He learned that such vile acts come home at last." Then he thought of John Grier.

"I loathed him and loved him always," he said with terrible remorse in his tone.

"He used my mother badly, and yet he was himself; he was the soul that he was born, a genius in his own way, a neglecter of all that makes life beautiful--and yet himself, always himself.

He never pottered.