But, by degrees, as I threaded my way among the moving crowds, I came to a better and more worthy frame of mind.

After all, I had lost nothing that I had ever had.

Ruth was still all that she had ever been to me--perhaps even more; and if that had been a rich endowment yesterday, why not to-day also?
And how unfair it would be to her if I should mope and grieve over a disappointment that was no fault of hers and for which there was no remedy! Thus I reasoned with myself, and to such purpose that, by the time I reached Fetter Lane, my dejection had come to quite manageable proportions and I had formed the resolution to get back to the _status quo ante bellum_ as soon as possible.
About eight o'clock, as I was sitting alone in the consulting-room, gloomily persuading myself that I was now quite resigned to the inevitable, Adolphus brought me a registered packet, at the handwriting on which my heart gave such a bound that I had much ado to sign the receipt.

As soon as Adolphus had retired (with undissembled contempt of the shaky signature) I tore open the packet, and as I drew out a letter a tiny box dropped on the table.
The letter was all too short, and I devoured it over and over again with the eagerness of a condemned man reading a reprieve:-- "My Dear Paul, "Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly this afternoon, and leaving you so unhappy, too.

I am more sane and reasonable now, and so send you greeting and beg you not to grieve for that which can never be.