ndow, watching the driving rain.

He was not thinking, for he could not think. Over and over again the
scene of the morning came back to him and sent the hot blood rushing to
his throat. He tried to reflect, indeed, and to see whether what he had
done was to have any consequences for him, or was to be left behind in
his life, like a lovely view seen from a carriage window on a swift
journey, gone before it is half seen, and never to be seen again,
except in dreams. But he was utterly unable to look forward and reason
about the future. Everything dragged him back, up the steep ascent to
the convent, through the arched ways and vaulted corridors, to the room
in which he had passed the supreme moments of his life. The only
distinct impression of the future was the strong desire to feel again
what he had felt that day; to feel it again and again, and always, as
long as feeling could last; to stretch out his hands and take, to close
them and hold, to make his, indubitably, what had been but questionably
his for an instant, to get the one thing worth having, for himself, and
only for himself. For the passion of a strong man is loving and taking,
and the passion of a good woman is loving and giving. Dalrymple reasoned
well enough, later,--too well, perhaps,--but during those hours he spent
alone on that day, there was no power of reasoning in him. The world was
the woman he loved, and the world's orbit was but the circle of his
clasping arms. Beyond them was chaos, without form and void, clouded as
the rain-streaked panes of his little window.

He looked at his watch more than once. At last he rose, threw a cloak
over his shoulders and went out, locking the door of the little
laboratory behind him as he always did, and thrusting the unwieldy key
into his pocket.

He climbed the hill to the convent, taking the short cut through the
narrow lanes. The rain had almost ceased, and the wet mist that blew
round the corners of the dark houses was pleasant in his face. But he
scarcely knew what he saw and felt on his way. He reached the convent
church and went in, and stood by one of the pillars near the door.

It was a small church, built with a great choir for the nuns behind the
high altar; from each side of the latter a high wooden screen extended
to the walls, completely cutting off the space. It was dark, too,
especially in such weather, and almost deserted, save for a number of
old women who knelt on the damp marble pavement,