He considered how it would seem in print, backed by his most solemn asseverations, and then he saw the faces of the men who associated with him, pale thoughtful faces striving to conceal their smiles and their contempt.

But always he came back, like the desperate hare doubling on his course, upon the picture of Kate Cumberland there at the turning of the stairs, and that bent, bright head which confessed defeat.

The man had forgotten her.

It made Byrne open his eyes in incredulity even to imagine such a thing.

The man had forgotten her! She was no more to him than some withered hag he might ride past on the road.
His ear, subconsciously attentive to everything around him, caught a faint sound from the next room.