It was hideously unnatural.
He sat in the library, awaiting his lordship and the announcement of dinner.

There was a book before him; but his eyes were upon the window, the smooth lawns beyond, all drenched in summer sunshine, and his thoughts were introspective.

He looked into his shuddering soul, and saw that he could not--that he would not--do the thing which he was come to do.

He would await the coming of Everard, to tell him so.

There would be a storm to face, he knew.