The hours dragged along as Stafford faced the tragedy of his life.

As he paced the room or flung himself into a chair, with his head bowed in his hands, the effects of the wine he had taken, the suppressed excitement under which he had laboured, passed away, and in the reaction his brain cleared and he began to realise the terrible import of the step he had taken, the extent of the sacrifice he had made.

His own life was wrecked and ruined irreparably; not only his own, but that of the girl he loved.
The step he had taken was not only irreparable but irrevocable; he could not go back.

He had asked Maude Falconer to be his wife, he had spoken words which must have sounded to her as words of love, he had kissed her lips.

In a word, he was pledged to her, and the pledge could not be broken.
And Ida! What should he do in regard to her?
He had promised that if his feelings underwent any change towards her he would not go and tell her.