And then, with an overpowering surrender, there came upon him all his old childish clinging to that woman whose heart the licentiousness of his father had been unable to quell. He knew his own nature to be tough enough, but compared with his mother he was like an oak-sapling growing in the cleft of a rock. The woman was adamant, where he was merely obstinate. Rock-smooth she was, where he was merely gnarled and knotted and earth-rooted.

“Damn!” he muttered to himself, as he watched the beetle turn back resignedly within an inch of the stalk’s point, and begin a patient descent. “Damn! It’s just pure weakness and habit!”

But, oh, dear! How could he desert Gerda⁠ ⁠… how could he do it⁠ ⁠… after three lovely happy months; and without cause or reason save his own fickle madness?