atterly he had thought of
little else, he remained more or less stupid all the time.

To a man like Malbone, self-indulgent rather than selfish, this poor,
blind semblance of a moral purpose in Emilia was a great embarrassment.
It is a terrible thing for a lover when he detects conscience amidst
the armory of weapons used against him, and faces the fact that he
must blunt a woman's principles to win her heart. Philip was rather
accustomed to evade conscience, but he never liked to look it in the
face and defy it.

Yet if the thought of Hope at this time came over him, it came as
a constraint, and he disliked it as such; and the more generous and
beautiful she was, the greater the constraint. He cursed himself that
he had allowed himself to be swayed back to her, and so had lost Emilia
forever. And thus he drifted on, not knowing what he wished for, but
knowing extremely well what he feared.

XIV. THE NEMESIS OF PASSION.

MALBONE was a person of such ready, emotional nature, and such easy
expression, that it was not hard for Hope to hide from herself the
gradual ebbing of his love. Whenever he was fresh and full of spirits,
he had enough to overflow upon her and every one. But when other
thoughts and cares were weighing on him, he could not share them, nor
could he at such times, out of the narrowing channel of his own life,
furnish more than a few scanty drops for her.

At these times he watched with torturing fluctuations the signs
of solicitude in Hope, the timid withdrawing of her fingers, the
questioning of her eyes, the weary drooping of her whole expression.
Often he cursed himself as a wretch for paining that pure and noble
heart. Yet there were moments when a vague inexpressible delight stole
in; a glimmering of shame-faced pleasure as he pondered on this visible
dawning of distrust; a sudden taste of freedom in being no longer
fettered by her confidence. By degrees he led himself, still half
ashamed, to the dream that she might yet be somehow weaned from him, and
leave his conscience free. By constantly building upon this thought, and
putting aside all others, he made room upon the waste of his life for a
house of cards, glittering, unsubstantial, lofty,--until there came some
sudden breath that swept it away; and then he began on it again.

In one of those moments of more familiar faith which still alternated
with these cold, sad intervals, she asked him with some sudden impulse,
how he should fee