He shuddered with cold as he dived into the water, and as he swam out he felt, for the first time in his life, a slight twinge of cramp.

At another time he would have been somewhat alarmed, for the strongest swimmer is absolutely helpless under an attack of cramp, but this morning he was indifferent, and the thought struck him that it would be well for him if he flung up his arms and went down to the bottom of the lake on the shores of which he had experienced such exquisite joy, such unutterable misery.

He met no one on his way back to the house, and went straight to his room.

The swim had removed some of the traces of last night's work, but he still looked haggard and worn, and there was that expression in his eyes which a man's wear when he has been battling with a great grief or struggling against an overwhelming fate.
As Measom was dressing him he asked himself how he should get the letter to Ida--the only letter he had ever written her, the only letter he would probably ever write to her.

He decided that he would send it over by Pottinger, whom he knew he could trust not only to deliver the letter, but to refrain from telling anyone that he had been sent with it.