hour. . . .

XII

To deceive undoubtedly requires a course of training. And, unversed in
this art, Lennan was fast finding it intolerable to scheme and watch
himself, and mislead one who had looked up to him ever since they were
children. Yet, all the time, he had a feeling that, since he alone knew
all the circumstances of his case, he alone was entitled to blame or to
excuse himself. The glib judgments that moralists would pass upon his
conduct could be nothing but the imbecilities of smug and pharisaic
fools--of those not under this drugging spell--of such as had not blood
enough, perhaps, ever to fall beneath it!

The day after the ride Nell had not come, and he had no word from her.
Was she, then, hurt, after all? She had lain back very inertly in that
chair! And Sylvia never asked if he knew how the girl was after her
fall, nor offered to send round to inquire. Did she not wish to speak of
her, or had she simply--not believed? When there was so much he could not
talk of it seemed hard that just what happened to be true should be
distrusted. She had not yet, indeed, by a single word suggested that she
felt he was deceiving her, but at heart he knew that she was not
deceived. . . . Those feelers of a woman who loves--can anything check
their delicate apprehension? . . .

Towards evening, the longing to see the girl--a sensation as if she were
calling him to come to her--became almost insupportable; yet, whatever
excuse he gave, he felt that Sylvia would know where he was going. He
sat on one side of the fire, she on the other, and they both read books;
the only strange thing about their reading was, that neither of them ever
turned a leaf. It was 'Don Quixote' he read, the page which had these
words: "Let Altisidora weep or sing, still I am Dulcinea's and hers
alone, dead or alive, dutiful and unchanged, in spite of all the
necromantic powers in the world." And so the evening passed. When she
went up to bed, he was very near to stealing out, driving up to the
Dromores' door, and inquiring of the confidential man; but the thought of
the confounded fellow's eyes was too much for him, and he held out. He
took up Sylvia's book, De Maupassant's 'Fort comme la mort'--open at the
page where the poor woman finds that her lover has passed away from her
to her own daughter. And as he read, the tears rolled down his cheek.
Sylvia! Sylvia! Were not his old favourite words from that old
favourite book still