He had not that balance of thought left which might have
suggested to him that he was a man young and powerful, and filled with
an immense passion which might count for something. All he saw was
that he was notably in the position of the men whom he had privately
disdained when they helped themselves by marriage. Such marriages he
had held were insults to the manhood of any man and the womanhood of
any woman. In such unions neither party could respect himself or
his companion. They must always in secret doubt each other, fret at
themselves, feel distaste for the whole thing. Even if a man loved such
a woman, and the feeling was mutual, to whom would it occur to believe
it--to see that they were not gross and contemptible? To no one. Would
it have occurred to himself that such an extenuating circumstance was
possible? Certainly it would not. Pig-headed pride and obstinacy it
might be, but he could not yet face even the mere thought of it--even
if his whole position had not been grotesque. Because, after all, it was
grotesque that he should even argue with himself. She--before his eyes
and the eyes of all others--the most desirable of women; people dinning
it in one's ears that she was surrounded by besiegers who waited for her
to hold out her sceptre, and he--well, what was he! Not that his mental
attitude was that of a meek and humble lover who felt himself unworthy
and prostrated himself before her shrine with prayers--he was, on
the contrary, a stout and obstinate Briton finding his stubbornly-held
beliefs made as naught by a certain obsession--an intolerable longing
which wakened with him in the morning, which sank into troubled sleep
with him at night--the longing to see her, to speak to her, to stand
near her, to breathe the air of her.
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