In the carriage, which he had to himself, he sat stunned.

He was rather angry than dismayed and appalled.

He was like the soldier, cut down by a sabre-slash or struck by a bullet, who, for a second, stares dully at the red gash or blue hole--waiting for the blood to flow and the pain to commence.
He was numbed, emotionally dead, waiting the terrible awakening to the realization that he had _lost Lucille_.

What mattered the loss of home, career, friends, honour--mere anti-climax to glance at it.
Yesterday!...

To-day! What was Lucille thinking?
What would she do and say?
Would she grow to hate the coward who had dared to make love to her, dared to win her love! Would she continue to love him in spite of all?
_I shall enjoy waiting twenty years for you_, she had said yesterday, and _The world would be quite empty if you left it_.