It was, from the girl's point of view, most unfortunate, of course, that the two calamities of Harry's drunkenness and the duel had come so close together.

Perhaps--and for the first time in his life he weakened before her tears--perhaps if he had thrown the case of pistols out of the window, sent one man to his father and the other back to Kennedy Square, it might all have been different--but then again, could this have been done, and if it had been, would not all have to be done over again the next day?
At last he asked hopelessly: "Have you no message for Harry ?" "None," she answered resolutely.
"And you will not see him ?" "No--we can never heal wounds by keeping them open." This came calmly, and as if she had made up her mind, and in so determined a tone that he saw it meant an end to the interview.
He rose from his seat and without another word turned toward the door.
She gained her feet slowly, as if the very movement caused her pain; put her arms around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, followed him to the door, waved her hand to him as she watched him pick his way across the square, and threw herself on her lounge in an agony of tears.
That night St.George and Harry sat by the smouldering wood fire; the early spring days were warm and joyous, but the nights were still cool.
The boy sat hunched up in his chair, his face drawn into lines from the anxiety of the past week; his mind absorbed in the story that St.George had brought from the Seymour house.

As in all ardent temperaments, these differences with Kate, which had started as a spark, had now developed into a conflagration which was burning out his heart.

His love for Kate was not a part of his life--it was ALL of his life.

He was ready now for any sacrifice, no matter how humiliating.