He could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it was
going dead against him.

That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended
for conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences of
growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite.

No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning,
and afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was
inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving her
what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It
could not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He
did not flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing--the
fallen idol--that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He
wished that he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had
all come too suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare,
nobody. There was the whole situation. What now to do?--To remain here
while it pleased them, then Paris, then London for his fight.

Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little
excursions in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It
was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified.
The boat ran in lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of reef
that looked like a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They
anchored in the Bay des Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves,
and lunching, and then they went back to the boat, accompanied by a
Breton sailor, who had acted as guide.

Gaston lay reading,--they were in the shade of the cliff,--while Andree
listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length Gaston's