stomed to lunch, dine,
dance, and sport with him. And yet he shunned his own company--going
wherever strange faces, life, anything distracted him a little, without
demanding real attention. It must be confessed that he had come
unwillingly to discovery of the depth of his passion, aware that it meant
giving up too much. But there are women who inspire feeling so direct
and simple that reason does not come into play; and he had never asked
himself whether Gyp was worth loving, whether she had this or that
quality, such or such virtue. He wanted her exactly as she was; and did
not weigh her in any sort of balance. It is possible for men to love
passionately, yet know that their passion is but desire, possible for men
to love for sheer spiritual worth, feeling that the loved one lacks this
or that charm.

Summerhay's love had no such divided consciousness. About her past, too,
he dismissed speculation. He remembered having heard in the
hunting-field that she was Winton's natural daughter; even then it had
made him long to punch the head of that covertside scandal-monger. The
more there might be against the desirability of loving her, the more he
would love her; even her wretched marriage only affected him in so far as
it affected her happiness. It did not matter--nothing mattered except to
see her and be with her as much as she would let him. And now she was
going to the sea for a month, and he himself--curse it!--was due in
Perthshire to shoot grouse. A month!

He walked slowly along the river. Dared he speak? At times, her face
was like a child's when it expects some harsh or frightening word. One
could not hurt her--impossible! But, at times, he had almost thought she
would like him to speak. Once or twice he had caught a slow soft
glance--gone the moment he had sight of it.

He was before his time, and, leaning on the river parapet, watched the
tide run down. The sun shone on the water, brightening its yellowish
swirl, and little black eddies--the same water that had flowed along
under the willows past Eynsham, past Oxford, under the church at Clifton,
past Moulsford, past Sonning. And he thought: 'My God! To have her to
myself one day on the river--one whole long day!' Why had he been so
pusillanimous all this time? He passed his hand over his face. Broad
faces do not easily grow thin, but his felt thin to him, and this gave
him a kind of morbid satisfaction. If she knew how he was longing, ho