Whatever she had done he could love no other woman.
Then he realized that his life was over.

The future a blank, unutterable, hopeless gray which must go on for years and years.

For he could never come back to her again, nor even live in the house with her, under the semblance of things.
Then an agonizing bitterness came to him, the hideous malevolence of fate, not to have let him meet this woman first before this other man; think of the faithfulness of her nature, with all its cruel actions to himself! She had been absolutely faithful to her lover, and had defended herself from his--Tristram's--caresses, even of her finger-tips.

What a love worth having, what a strong, true character--worth dying for--in a woman! And now, he must never see her again; or, if once more, only for a business meeting, to settle things without scandal to either of them.
He would not go back to Park Lane, yet--not for a week; he would give her time to see to the funeral, without the extra pain of his presence.
The man had taken him for the doctor, and she had not even been aware of his entrance: he would go back to Wrayth, alone, and there try to think out some plan.

So he searched among the covered-up furniture for his writing table, and found some paper, and sat down and wrote two notes, one to his mother.