that I feel I ought not to neglect it,--especially
as your books are so unusual."

He settled himself to Tristram Shandy with appreciation, but Geoffrey
could not read. He sat, indeed, with a book open on his knee, but his
eyes were fixed on the carpet. The knowledge of the girl's presence in
his house distracted him like a lantern swung before his eyes. He gave
himself up to steeping himself in his emotion, which, in some
situations, is the nearest thing possible to thinking.

Geoffrey's success with women had been conspicuous, as was natural for
he was good looking, rich and apparently susceptible. As a matter of
fact, however, his susceptibility was purely superficial, and for this
very reason he was not afraid to give it full sway. The deeply
susceptible man learns to be cautious, to distrust his feelings, but
Geoffrey had always too truly recognised his fundamental indifference to
have any reason to distrust himself. He had never been in love. Like
Ferdinand he, "for different virtues had liked many women," although in
his case it had not always been necessarily virtues that had attracted
him. But there were certain women who had always appealed to him for
some conspicuous quality, or characteristic, who for one reason or
another pleased him, to which one side or another of his nature
responded. He had often thought that if he could make up a composite
woman of all of them he might be in great danger of falling in love. But
now he was aware that his whole nature responded to the attraction of
the girl upstairs, as a dog answers instinctively to the call of its
master. He could say to himself that she was this or that,--brave and
beautiful, but he knew that such qualities were but an insignificant
part of the total effect. His reason could find causes enough to approve
her, but something more important had gone ahead, and made straight the
paths of his reason, something which transcended it, and which in case
of a divergence between the two, his reason could never overcome.

For, of course, the realisation of McVay and all his presence implied
fell coolly upon his exaltation. By no means had Geoffrey said to
himself in so many words that he was in love,--far less had anything so
definite as marriage crossed his mind. He was too much in love to be so
practical. He only knew that McVay's mere existence was a contamination
and a tragedy.

He had been sitting thus for some time, when he heard her step on the
stairs.