Did he fancy that he loved her still? or was the pain that he felt, when he reflected that he had lost her, the result of his wounded vanity--the result of his feeling that people would say he had not had sufficient skill, with all his cleverness, to retain the love of the girl who had promised to be his wife?

Before going to bed he had written replies to the two letters. The bishop had suggested an early hour for their interview--he had named eleven o'clock as convenient to himself, if it would also suit Mr. Holland. Two o'clock was the hour suggested by Mr. Linton, if that hour would not interfere with the other engagements of Mr. Holland; so he had written agreements to the suggestions of both his correspondents.

At eleven o'clock exactly he drove through the gates of the Palace of the bishop, and with no faltering hand pulled the bell. (So, he reflected for an instant,--only an instant,--Luther had gone, somewhere or other, he forgot at the moment what was the exact locality; but the occasion had been a momentous one in the history of the Church.)

He was cordially greeted by the bishop, who said:

"How do you do, Holland? I took it for granted that you were an early riser--that's why I ventured to name eleven."

"No hour could suit me better to-day," said George, accepting the seat --he perceived at once that it was a genuine Chippendale chair upholstered in old red morocco--to which his lordship made a motion with his hand. He did not, however, seat himself until the bishop had occupied, which he did very comfortably, the corresponding chair at the side of the study desk.

"I was anxious to have a chat with you about that book, and that article of yours in the /Zeit Geist/, Holland," said the bishop. "I wish you had written neither."

"/Litera scripta manet/," said George, with a smile.