In the long evening that followed Ruth's departure from Stoke Moreton, Charles was alone for once in his own home.

He was leaving again early on the morrow, but for the time he was alone, and heavy at heart.

He sat for hours without stirring, looking into the fire.

He had no power or will to control his thoughts.

They wandered hither and thither, and up and down, never for a moment easing the dull miserable pain that lay beneath them all.
Fool! fool that he had been! To have found her after all these years, and to have lost her without a stroke! To have let another take her, and such a man as Dare! To have such a fool's manner that he was thought to be in earnest when he was least so; that now, when his whole future hung in the balance, retribution had overtaken him, and with bitter irony had mocked at his earnestness and made it of none effect.