ing upon his entrails like a beast of prey.
Once only in his life had he found himself so powerless before a
devouring passion, and then, as now, he had glutted it with wounded
love. Then, as now, he had hated with a terrible desire.

The application lay upon his desk, and he pushed it out of sight. He
could not read it now--he wondered if the time would ever come when he
could read it. The thought smote him with the lash of fear--the fear of
himself. He who an hour ago had held his assurance to be beyond assault
was now watching for the death of his hate as he might have watched for
the death of a wolf whose fangs he had felt.

Lifting his head, he could see through the curtained window the chill
slopes of the square and the circular drive beneath the great bronze
Washington. Beyond the distant gates rose the church spires of the city,
suffused with the pink flush of sunset. The atmosphere glowed like a
blush upon the perspective, which was shading through variations of
violet remoteness. All was frozen save the winter sunset and the
advancing twilight.

He turned from the window and faced the painting of the Confederate
soldier. For a moment he regarded it blankly, then, pushing aside
Eugenia's chair he threw himself into one across from it. He was
thinking of Bernard Battle, and he remembered suddenly that he must have
hated him always--that he had hated him long ago in his childhood when
the weak-faced boy had headed a school faction against him. True, Dudley
Webb had incited the attempt at social ostracism, but he bore no
resentment against Dudley--on the contrary, he was convinced that he
liked him in spite of all--in spite, even, of Eugenia. With the
inflexible fairness that he never lost, he knew that, with Eugenia,
Dudley had not wronged him. It had been a fight in open field, and
Dudley had won. He had even liked the vigour of his wooing, and some
years later, when they had met, he had given the victor a hearty
handshake. He distrusted him as a politician, but he liked him as a man.

And Bernard Battle. That was an honest hate, and he hugged it to him.
Before him still, so vivid that it seemed but yesterday, hovered the
memory of that wild evening in the road, and the unforgotten sunset
faced him as he hurried through the wood. In the acuteness of his
remembered senses he could hear the dead leaves rustle in his pathway
and could smell the vague scents of autumn drifting on the wind. Through
all the years