that
he might come back and find her gone, fear that she might even do
something terrible to herself. He looked at her with a sort of horror,
and, without a word, went out of the room. The feeling that he must hit
his head against something was on him once more, and once more he sought
to get rid of it by tramping up and down. Great God! Such a little
thing, such fearful consequences! All her balance, her sanity almost,
destroyed. Was what he had done so very dreadful? He could not help
Diana loving him!

In the night, Gyp had said: "You are cruel. Do you think there is any
man in the world that I wouldn't hate the sight of if I knew that to see
him gave you a moment's pain?" It was true--he felt it was true. But
one couldn't hate a girl simply because she loved you; at least he
couldn't--not even to save Gyp pain. That was not reasonable, not
possible. But did that difference between a man and a woman necessarily
mean that Gyp loved him so much more than he loved her? Could she not
see things in proportion? See that a man might want, did want, other
friendships, even passing moments of passion, and yet could love her just
the same? She thought him cruel, called him cruel--what for? Because he
had kissed a girl who had kissed him; because he liked talking to her,
and--yes, might even lose his head with her. But cruel! He was not!
Gyp would always be first with him. He must MAKE her see--but how? Give
up everything? Give up--Diana? (Truth is so funny--it will out even in
a man's thoughts!) Well, and he could! His feeling was not deep--that
was God's truth! But it would be difficult, awkward, brutal to give her
up completely! It could be done, though, sooner than that Gyp should
think him cruel to her. It could be--should be done!

Only, would it be any use? Would she believe? Would she not always now
be suspecting him when he was away from her, whatever he did? Must he
then sit down here in inactivity? And a gust of anger with her swept
him. Why should she treat him as if he were utterly unreliable? Or--was
he? He stood still. When Diana had put her arms round his neck, he
could no more have resisted answering her kiss than he could now fly
through the window and over those poplar trees. But he was not a
blackguard, not cruel, not a liar! How could he have helped it all? The
only way would have been never to have answered the girl's first letter,
nearly a year ago. How could he fore