I was famished for want of a friendly word or look, and my pride was at its last gasp.

I believe I had actually begun to speak, when a sound in the passage startled us both, and we passed by as of old--strangers.
I rushed off to my study, ashamed and disappointed, and paced round it like a caged animal.

What could I do?
Should I write to some of the fellows?
Should I tell Draven?
or--should I escape?
Then it occurred to me, had not I a right to know why I was being treated like this?
What had I done?
Was I a sneak, or a leper, or a murderer, that I should thus be excommunicated and tortured?
What a fool I had been, not to think of this before! Alas! it was too late now.

My pride had made it impossible for me to speak the first word without surrendering all along the line; and even yet, at the eleventh hour, I could not face that.

So I shut myself up for another day, miserable, nervous, and ill, and counted the minutes to bedtime.
The evening post brought a letter from Browne, and, thankful for any diversion, and the silent company even of a friendly piece of paper, I crawled off early to my study to make the most of my little comfort.
I started before I had read two lines, and uttered an exclamation of amazement.
"Dear Smither,-- "There's been a most frightful mistake.