And to make a stir when the matter could be arranged without a stir was not the part of a wise man in the position of a magistrate.

Slowly he turned and walked away.
But, as if his good angel touched him on the shoulder, under the Porte Tertasse he had qualms; and again he stood.

And when, after a shorter interval and with less indecision, he resumed his course, it was by no means with the air of a victor.

He would receive what he needed in the morning: he dared not admit a doubt of that.

And yet--was it a vague presentiment that weighed on him as he walked, or only the wintry night wind that caused the blood to run more slowly and more tamely in his veins?
He had not fared ill in his venture, he had made success certain.
And yet he was unreasonably, he was unaccountably, he was undefinably depressed.
He grew more cheerful when he had had his supper and seated before a half-flagon of wine gave the reins to his imagination.