How Barnabas Went to his Triumph

Nevertheless (perverse fate!) Barnabas Beverley was not happy, for,
though his smile was as ready as his tongue, yet, even amid the
glittering throng, yea, despite the soft beams of Beauty's eyes, his
brow would at times grow dark and sombre, and his white, strong
fingers clench themselves upon the dainty handkerchief of lace and
cambric fashion required him to carry. Yet even this was accepted in
all good faith, and consequently pale checks and a romantic gloom
became the mode.

No, indeed, Barnabas was not happy, since needs must he think ever
of Cleone. Two letters had he written her, the first a humble
supplication, the second an angry demand couched in terms of bitter
reproach. Yet Cleone gave no sign; and the days passed. Therefore,
being himself young and proud, he wrote no more, and waited for some
word of explanation, some sign from her; then, as the days
lengthened into weeks, he set himself resolutely to forget her, if
such a thing might be.

The better to achieve a thing so impossible, he turned to that most
fickle of all goddesses whose name is Chance, and wooed her fiercely
by day and by night. He became one of her most devoted slaves; in
noble houses, in clubs and hells, he sought her. Calm-eyed,
grim-lipped he wooed her, yet with dogged assiduity; he became a
familiar figure at those very select gaming-tables where play was
highest, and tales of his recklessness and wild prodigality began to
circulate; tales of huge sums won and lost with the same calm
indifference, that quiet gravity which marked him in all things.