She had done what no man had as yet succeeded in; she had broken his
spirit. And here a man would have left him alone. But the rejected beauty
put her lips to his ear, and whispered into them, "This is only the
beginning." Then she left him and went to his room and stole all his
paper, and pens, and ink, and his very Aristotle. He was to have no
occupation now, except to brood, and brood, and brood.
As for Alfred, he sat down upon a bench in the yard a broken man: up to
this moment he had hoped his Julia was as constant as himself. But no;
either she had heard he was mad, and with the universal credulity had
believed it, or perhaps, not hearing from him at all believed herself
forsaken; and was consoling herself with a clergyman. Jealousy did not as
yet infuriate Alfred. Its first effect resembled that of a heavy blow.
Little Beverley found him actually sick, and ran to the Robin. The
ex-prizefighter brought him a thimbleful of brandy, but he would not take
it. "Ah no, my friends," he said, "that cannot cure me; it is not my
stomach; it is my heart. Broken, broken!"
The Robin retired muttering.
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