"It isn't. I really _don't_ know what I ought to do."

"No more do I. But I can tell you what you ought to have done. You
ought to have made up your mind last night."

"Well, the fact is--last night--I hadn't very much mind left to make
up."

"No, I remember. You _were_ rather done up. I don't want to bind you
by last night, if it's at all unfair to you."

"It isn't in the least unfair to me. But I'm not sure that it mightn't
be very unfair to you; and, you see, I want to think it out."

"Very well, think it out, and let me know some time to-night. Will
that satisfy you?"

"It ought to."

And for the moment it did satisfy him. He felt that conscience, that
stern guardian of his conduct, was off duty for the day. He was free
(for the day) to abandon himself to the charm of Miss Harden's
society. The experience, he told himself, would be altogether new and
delightful.

New it undoubtedly was; but he remained a little uncertain as to the
delight; the immediate effect of Miss Harden's presence being an
intellectual disturbance amounting almost to aberration. It showed
itself, first of all, in a frightful exaltation of the consciousness