He must forget Lady Malleson. He wished that the cause of his disgrace
could have been different; those words, “a coward and a sham,” left a
bad taste in his mouth; there was no getting round them, and no getting
round the incident of the fire; he wished passionately that the whole
thing might be blotted out: there was Nan’s knowledge, Morgan’s
knowledge, Lady Malleson’s knowledge,—that was the worst,—and lastly
Hambley’s knowledge, but his contempt for Hambley was so great that he
could disregard everything from that quarter. But he could not pretend
to himself to disregard the knowledge of those other three; it
infuriated and mortified him. Lady Malleson knew him for what he was;
knew him for worse than he was, despised him more than he deserved. He
had to bear this, added to his loss of her; and he found it hard. Once
his angry pain drove him to write to her, as lackadaisical a letter as
he could compose, flicking at her the phrases that he had been slightly
drunk on the occasion of his last interview with her; that he apologised
for presenting himself to her in that condition, also for whatever wild
statement he might have uttered; he sent the letter; in his mind he
followed its journey; he wept bitter and angry tears on the morning when
it must be received.