years? She was—let’s see—twenty-six now.
He wondered if she had changed, if he
would know her again, if she would be
happy. Why had she waited eight years,
since he had said that he would never return
never? What had she thought he would
do? Then another idea sobered him a
moment. If she were going to be married
he could never appear in England again as
Clifford Yelverton, He could never claim
his title even. The idea amused him at
first, then gradually it took possession of
him and assumed a serious aspect. He had
wanted to disappear, now life, circumstances,
events, insisted on his disappearing. If he
did his duty, he could never be seen again.
By his own act, he had made himself an
outcast, a pariah, for ever. The moral, the
religious point of view, he had not given a
thought to yet. He would presently, perhaps,
but only from her point of view, or that of
the world. He had no established moral
code, no theories, no religion, yet he was
neither immoral, ‘nor a disbeliever. Forms
of worship, creeds—he had regarded them
always half with interest, half with amused
tolerance. They were the pivot to which
each nation tied itself in a different knot,
for fear it should be blown away. His
