All, then, was a mockery.
It was only this past summer that he had begun to fancy himself in love with Maggie Deronnais.
It had been an emotion of very quiet growth, developing gently, week by week, feeding on her wholesomeness, her serenity, her quiet power, her cool, capable hands, and the look in her direct eyes; it resembled respect rather than passion, and need rather than desire; it was a hunger rather than a thirst.
Then had risen up this other, blinding and bewildering; and, he told himself, he now knew the difference.
His lips curled into bitter and resentful lines as he contemplated the contrast.
And all was gone, shattered and vanished; and even Maggie was now impossible.
Again he writhed over, sick with pain and longing; and so lay.
It was ten minutes before he moved again, and then he only roused himself as he heard a foot on the stairs. Perhaps it was his mother.
He slipped off the couch and stood up, his face lined and creased with the pressure with which he had