with him in that matter. His favourite Horace
had had a fresh love for every day; but he had told himself that
Horace knew nothing of love. Of Petrarch and Laura he had thought;
but even to Petrarch Laura had been a subject for expression rather
than for passion. Prince Arthur, in his love for Guinevere, went
nearer to the mark which he had fancied for himself. Imogen, in her
love for Posthumus, gave to him a picture of all that love should be.
It was thus that he had thought of himself in all his readings; and
as years had gone by, he had told himself that for him there was to
be nothing better than reading. But yet his mind had been full, and
he had still thought to himself that, in spite of his mistake in
reference to Catherine Bailey, there was still room for a strong
passion.

Then Mary Lawrie had come upon him, and the sun seemed to shine
nowhere but in her eyes and in the expression of her face. He had
told himself distinctly that he was now in love, and that his life
had not gone so far forward as to leave him stranded on the dry
sandhills. She was there living in his house, subject to his orders,
affectionate and docile; but, as far as he could judge, a perfect
woman. And, as far as he could judge, there was no other man whom she
loved. Then, with many doubtings, he asked her the question, and he
soon learned the truth,--but not the whole truth.

There had been a man, but he was one who seemed to have passed by and
left his mark, and then to have gone on altogether out of sight. She
had told him that she could not but think of John Gordon, but that
that was all. She would, if he asked it, plight her troth to him
and become his wife, although she must think of John Gordon. This
thinking would last but for a while, he told himself; and he at his
age--what right had he to expect aught better than that? She was
of such a nature that, when she had given herself up in marriage,
she would surely learn to love her husband. So he had accepted her
promise, and allowed himself for one hour to be a happy man.

Then John Gordon had come to his house, falling upon it like the
blast of a storm. He had come at once--instantly--as though fate had
intended to punish him, Whittlestaff, utterly and instantly. Mary had
told him that she could not promise not to think of him who had once
loved her, when, lo and behold! the man himself was there. Who ever
suffered a blow so severe as this? He had left them together. He
had felt h