Word by word, he dwelt with morbid attention on the terms of crushing severity in which the Lord President had spoken of Sydney Westerfield and of himself.

Sentence by sentence he read the reproof inflicted on the unhappy woman whom he had vowed to love and cherish.

And then--even then--urged by his own self-tormenting suspicion, he looked for more.

On the opposite page there was a leading article, presenting comments on the trial, written in the tone of lofty and virtuous regret; taking the wife's side against the judge, but declaring, at the same time, that no condemnation of the conduct of the husband and the governess could be too merciless, and no misery that might overtake them in the future more than they had deserved.
He threw the newspaper on the table at his side, and thought over what he had read.
If he had done nothing else, he had drained the bitter cup to the dregs.
When he looked back, he saw nothing but the life that he had wasted.
When his thoughts turned to the future, they confronted a prospect empty of all promise to a man still in the prime of life.

Wife and child were as completely lost to him as if they had been dead--and it was the wife's doing.