me, the mention of which for his
sake must never be made, but whose recollection perpetually haunted
them. In every action was the belief that James must be suffering from
remorse, and that it was their duty not to make his burden heavier.
James knew that his father was convinced that he had acted
dishonourably, and he--what did he himself think?

James asked himself a hundred times a day whether he had acted well or
ill; and though he forced himself to answer that he had done the only
possible thing, deep down in his heart was a terrible, a perfectly
maddening uncertainty. He tried to crush it, and would not listen, for
his intelligence told him clearly it was absurd; but it was stronger
than intelligence, an incorporeal shape through which passed harmlessly
the sword-cuts of his reason. It was a little devil curled up in his
heart, muttering to all his arguments, "Are you sure?"

Sometimes he was nearly distracted, and then the demon laughed, so that
the mocking shrillness rang in his ears:

"Are you sure, my friend--are you sure? And where, pray, is the honour
which only a while ago you thought so much of?"

* * *

James walked to and fro restlessly, impatient, angry with himself and
with all the world.

But then on the breath of the wind, on the perfume of the roses, yellow
and red, came suddenly the irresistible recollection of Mrs. Wallace.
Why should he not think of her now? He was free; he could do her no
harm; he would never see her again. The thought of her was the only
sunshine in his life; he was tired of denying himself every pleasure.
Why should he continue the pretence that he no longer loved her? It was,
indeed, a consolation to think that the long absence had not dulled his
passion; the strength of it was its justification. It was useless to
fight against it, for it was part of his very soul; he might as well
have fought against the beating of his heart. And if it was torture to
remember those old days in India, he delighted in it; it was a pain more
exquisite than the suffocating odours of tropical flowers, a voluptuous
agony such as might feel the fakir lacerating his flesh in a divine
possession.... Every little occurrence was clear, as if it had taken
place but a day before.

James repeated to himself the conversations they had had, of no
consequence, the idle gossip of a stray half-hour; but each word was
opulent in the charming smile, in the caressing glance of her eyes. He
was able to im