success go. No, no--even should he be starving he couldn't make
money out of Sir Dominick's disgrace. He was almost surprised at the
violence of the horror with which, as he shuffled mournfully about,
the idea of any such profit inspired him. What was Sir Dominick to
him after all? He wished he had never come across him.

In one of his brooding pauses at the window--the window out of which
never again apparently should he see Mrs. Ryves glide across the
little garden with the step for which he had liked her from the
first--he became aware that the rain was about to intermit and the
sun to make some grudging amends. This was a sign that he might go
out; he had a vague perception that there were things to be done. He
had work to look for, and a cheaper lodging, and a new idea (every
idea he had ever cherished had left him), in addition to which the
promised little word was to be dropped at Mr. Locket's door. He
looked at his watch and was surprised at the hour, for he had nothing
but a heartache to show for so much time. He would have to dress
quickly, but as he passed to his bedroom his eye was caught by the
little pyramid of letters which Mr. Locket had constructed on his
davenport. They startled him and, staring at them, he stopped for an
instant, half-amused, half-annoyed at their being still in existence.
He had so completely destroyed them in spirit that he had taken the
act for granted, and he was now reminded of the orderly stages of
which an intention must consist to be sincere. Baron went at the
papers with all his sincerity, and at his empty grate (where there
lately had been no fire and he had only to remove a horrible ornament
of tissue-paper dear to Mrs. Bundy) he burned the collection with
infinite method. It made him feel happier to watch the worst pages
turn to illegible ashes--if happiness be the right word to apply to
his sense, in the process, of something so crisp and crackling that