The hours dragged along as Stafford faced the tragedy of his life. As
he paced the room or flung himself into a chair, with his head bowed in
his hands, the effects of the wine he had taken, the suppressed
excitement under which he had laboured, passed away, and in the
reaction his brain cleared and he began to realise the terrible import
of the step he had taken, the extent of the sacrifice he had made. His
own life was wrecked and ruined irreparably; not only his own, but that
of the girl he loved.

The step he had taken was not only irreparable but irrevocable; he
could not go back. He had asked Maude Falconer to be his wife, he had
spoken words which must have sounded to her as words of love, he had
kissed her lips. In a word, he was pledged to her, and the pledge could
not be broken.

And Ida! What should he do in regard to her? He had promised that if
his feelings underwent any change towards her he would not go and tell
her. And at that moment, he felt that the promise had not been a vain
one; for he knew that he could not go to her, that at sight of her his
resolution would melt like snow in the sun, that his love for her would
sweep him away on a torrent of passion, and that he would be as false
to Maude Falconer as he had been to Ida.