Walking across the bridge towards the house, Reginald Morton felt thoroughly disgusted with all the world.

Or disgusted, at least, with himself -- for he had altogether made a fool of himself by his manner. He had shown himself to be offended, not only by Mr. Twentyman, but by Miss Masters also . . . and he was well aware, as he thought of it all, that neither of them had given him any cause of offence. If she chose to make an appointment for a walk with Mr. Lawrence Twentyman and to keep it, what was that to him?

His anger was altogether irrational, and he knew it was so What right had he to have an opinion about it if Mary Masters should choose to like the society of Mr. Twentyman? It was an affair between her and her father and mother in which he could have no interest . . . and yet, and yet . . .