It is possible that, if his revolver had been lying quite near, the
morning John Derringham awoke to the remembrance that he was more or
less an engaged man, he would have shot himself, so utterly wretched and
debased did he feel. But no such weapon was there, and he lay in his
splendid gilt bed and groaned aloud as he covered his eyes with his
hand.
The light hurt him--he was giddy, and his head swam. Surely, among other
things in the half-indistinct nightmare of the preceding evening, he
must have had too much champagne.
From the moment, now over a week ago, that he had been allowed to sit up
in bed, and more or less distinct thought had come back to him, he had
been a prey to hideous anxiety and grief. Halcyone was gone from
him--had been snatched away by Fate, who, with rel
