to
lie half asleep, brain quite empty save for a temporal content.

Now, running or walking in the country, he found no time for the happier
aspects of woods or fields. He had to drive himself physically in order
that his mind could respond to Bailly's urgencies. And sometimes, as has
been suggested, his revolt was more violent. He paced his room angrily.
Why did he do it? Why did he submit? Eventually his eyes would turn to
her photograph, and he would go back to his table.

He was grateful for the chance that had let him pick up that picture.
Without its constant supervision he might not have been able to keep up
the struggle. During the worst moments, when some solution mocked him,
he would stare at the likeness while his brain fought, while, with a
sort of self-hypnosis induced by that pictured face, he willed himself
to keep on.

One night, when he had suffered over an elusive equation beyond his
scheduled bedtime, he found his eyes, as he stared at the picture,
blurring strangely; then the thing was done, the answer proved; but
after what an effort! Why did his eyes blur? Because of the intensity of
some emotion whose significance he failed all at once to grasp. He
continued to stare at Sylvia's beauty, informed even here with a sincere
intolerance; at those lips which had released the contempt that had
delivered him to this other slavery. Abruptly the emotion, that had
seemed to leap upon him from the books and the complicated figures,
defined itself with stark, unavoidable brutality. He reached out and
with both hands grasped the photograph. He wanted to snatch his hands
apart, ripping the paper, destroying the tranquil, arrogant features. He
replaced the picture, leant back, and continued hypnotically to study
it. His hands grasped the table's edge while the blurring of his eyes
increased. He spoke aloud in a clear and sullen voice:

"I hate you," he said. "With all my heart and soul and body I hate you."

IV

About this time one partial break in the schedule came like a strong
tonic. Bailly at the close of an evening's session spoke, George
fancied, with a little embarrassment.

"My wife wants to speak to you before you go."

He raised his voice.

"Martha! The battle's over for to-night."

She came quietly in and perched herself on the arm of a chair.

"I'm having a few people for dinner to-morrow," she explained. "There's
one young girl, so I want a young man. Won't you help me out?"

George'