good look at West. His first impression was
"Drunk;" his next, "Mad as any hatter alive."
But he relished the proposal. In the regiment
he had often assisted in such affairs. There
was one young man who it was said owed his
death to the management of Captain Filby,
who had ferociously refused an apology. "I'd be
glad to see you shoot a Frenchman, West;  and
though this infernal rheumatism is racking my
life, I'll go out with you. And, what's more,
I have the old pair of executioners with me."
His face quite lit up with pleasure at this
proposal of enjoyment; and indeed he told
West that he would find it do him a world
of good, and bring all to a head nicely.

As the captain turned away, a stout,
unhealthy-looking man, not unlike Colonel Pepin,
but a good deal shabbier, came up to West
with a bow. "I am Pequinet, formerly
lieutenant." (He was also "ancient" and "in
retreat.") "The honour of my friend, Colonel
Pepin, was wounded to-night. You will permit
me to have the honour of informing you—by
your behaviour—he insists on reparation."

"Which he shall have," said West, with
alacrity. "When and where you please; as
long and as often as you like. Now."

"Folly, stuff!" said Captain Filby, thrusting
himself forward. "What are you saying? Leave
this to me, or leave it alone. To-morrow, sir!
All in good time. We shall see you in
Dieppe."

They drove home. He dropped Captain Filby
at his own house; then walked home himself.
As he was crossing, the Place, a figure fluttered
by him, whom he looked at absently, and
hastened on. The figure had hurried after him,
and was beside him. "Mon ami," it said, "I
am so delighted. I heard of you to-day, from
your good sister. God will bless this noble
attempt of yours to conquer yourself."

West answered him impatiently: "I have
made no exertion, and want no blessing.
The finest and most perfect nature could not
do it. All the demons of hell seem leagued
against me to persecute and harass me!"

The abbé looked at him sorrowfully. "After
all, it is only the usual course. We must try
many times before we succeed, and fail, and
fail again. I did not expect it. We must not
lose heart."

"Ah! we can all preach," said West, bitterly.
"I have been too gentle hitherto. Good
night."

"Hear me a moment," said the abbé,
anxiously. "I am going your way—"

"I am tired of advice," said West, stopping
impatiently, "and I am not one of your flock,
M. l'Abbé. Oh! forgive me, dear, good sir, but
you know not what I have gone through, and
what I have to go through. If you knew that,
indeed. Give me your prayers; they can do no
harm."

The abbé looked after him sorrowfully, and
then went his way without a word.

As West went up-stairs, the two women
heard his heavy step enter his own room, and
shut the door impatiently. The two faces were
turned to each other with blank consternation.
They knew the whole story, as though they had
witnessed it themselves. Indeed, on his mental
state they hung suspended, like relatives or
children on the health of an invalid parent, whose
restoration of to-day, or relapse of to-morrow,
sends joy or gloom through the house.

They did not see him that night. In the
morning, at breakfast-time, they read a whole
night of trouble in his face, with the enforced
calm infinitely more distressful. They knew
he had been out betimes that morning. He had
come back moody and silent, yet with a strange
and restless fire in his eye. Then, to their
greater astonishment, Captain Filby called,
being "made up," as Mr. Dacres would have
said, "to the ninety-nines"—whatever
standard that was. All that day he remained at
home. They heard his ceaseless pacing. Their
wistful faces were turned often to each other
with a hopeless speculation. Something dreadful,
it seemed, was coming.

About three o'clock he came in to them.

"I am going away," he said, abruptly;
"perhaps for an hour or two, perhaps for a very,
very long time. I cannot endure this any
longer. I am weak, wretched, helpless,
contemptible. I have let this miserable childish
delusion prey on me until I cannot live or
sleep. Dear Margaret and Constance, I have
been very selfish and cruel to you both, but
you will forgive me. It is time it should end,
one way or the other."

"Oh! Gilbert, Gilbert, what does all this
mean?" cried Margaret, suddenly becoming
natural. "What are you going to do?"

At that moment the bonne came up to say
that a gentleman, M. Vivian, wished to see him.
At that name West started, and then went down
to him. Vivian was cold, and even stern.

"I have only just learned," he said, "that
you are about taking a step which must not
be thought of for a moment."

West understood him perfectly.

"Why not, pray?" he said, calmly. "It is
my own affair altogether, is it not?"

"Why not?" repeated Vivian, excitedly.
"First, because she is concerned, and we must
not have her pure name sullied by any vulgar
quarrel."

"It is my affair," repeated West, slowly.
"Her name is not concerned at all. Who
wishes to sully it?"

"Not concerned? Do you know what sort
of a place this is? I am astonished you do
not see this yourself," said Vivian,
passionately. "I did think you were noble and
generous, and that her name, or any
woman's name, would have been a talisman.
But there is another reason, which is
conclusive. I have seen the chief of the police;
and the person you quarrelled with, and wish
to meet as a gentleman, is a low ruffian, who
was turned out of the army years ago."

West stared at him, but put a constraint
upon himself. "And you," he said, abruptly,