The Black Fan

I believe that Sir George, riding soberly to Estcombe in the morning,
was not guiltless of looking back in spirit. Probably there are few men
who, when the binding word has been said and the final step taken, do
not feel a revulsion of mind, and for a moment question the wisdom of
their choice.

A more beautiful wife he could not wish; she was fair of
face and faultless in shape, as beautiful as a Churchill or a Gunning.
And in all honesty, and in spite of the undoubted advances she had made
to him, he believed her to be good and virtuous. But her birth, her
quality, or rather her lack of quality, her connections, these were
things to cry him pause, to bid him reflect; until the thought--mean and
unworthy, but not unnatural--that he was ruined, and what did it matter
whom he wedded? came to him, and he touched his horse with the spur and
cantered on by upland, down and clump, by Avebury, and Yatesbury, and
Compton Bassett, until he came to his home.

Returning in the afternoon, sad at starting, but less sad with every
added mile that separated him from the house to which he had bidden
farewell in his heart--and which, much as he prized it now, he had not
visited twice a year while it was his--it was another matter. He thought
little of the future; of the past not at all. The present was sufficient
for him. In an hour, in half an hour, in ten minutes, he would see her,
would hold her hands in his, would hear her say that she loved him,
would look unreproved into the depths of her proud eyes, would see them
sink before his. Not a regret now for White's! Or the gaming table!