ab drove
off, and he seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness of the street,
looking, as she thought, very wonderful, very handsome.... Then, quite
suddenly, she felt cold, quite lonely, almost forsaken....

For hours she could not shake off the horrible impression of his walking
away from her into the darkness, leaving her alone.

After her conventional evening at home, she shed bitter tears on her
pillow. Could he care for her really? She knew he did, and she suddenly
suspected that it was a sort of pleasure, a kind of indulgence to him to
play the ascetic when so near her, and at this fancy she felt a little
momentary resentment. But as soon as she saw him again, a word or a
smile was sunshine and life to her. She wanted so little, and she was
again her happy and gentle self.... At least, she could see him--while,
if he had gone to Athens.... Surely they would not have to wait a year?
No--Savile would find out some splendid arrangement that would make it
all right. She loved Woodville too much not to be hopeful; he cared too
much for her not to feel, almost, despair. The conditions of their
present existence were far harder for him, though she never knew it, and
did not dream how much she--not he--was exacting.

CHAPTER XVI

A GOLDEN DAY

Woodville was sitting in the library, supposed to be digging up old
Bluebooks for Sir James, but, instead, he found himself lingering over a
curious book of poems with a white cover and a black mask on the
outside. He read (and sighed):

Dear, were you mine for one full hour,
A lifetime, an hour, that is all I ask.
Dear, like a thing of lace, or a flower
Before the end would you drop your mask?

Dear, days and hours are not for me--
I may not know you, nor forgive,
For you are like the distant sea,
And I upon the hills must live.

"This," he said to himself, "is rot for me! It isn't a good poem,--and
if it were a good poem (it has _some_ good qualities) it's idiotic for
me to read poetry. What _is_ the matter with me?" He put down all the
books, and went and looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a face
rather paler, more worn than some weeks ago.

For the last few nights Woodville had suffered from insomnia--a trouble
at which he used to scoff and smile, firmly believing, until it had been
his own experience, that it was affectation. The second day that he had
gone to look out of the window at about five o'clock in the morning,