t to do; but to
his friends he had not given attention enough to prevent them saying:
"What's up with old Bryan?" Always rather elusive in his movements,
he was now too elusive altogether for those who had been accustomed
to lunch, dine, dance, and sport with him. And yet he shunned his own
company--going wherever strange faces, life, anything distracted him a
little, without demanding real attention. It must be confessed that he
had come unwillingly to discovery of the depth of his passion, aware
that it meant giving up too much. But there are women who inspire
feeling so direct and simple that reason does not come into play; and
he had never asked himself whether Gyp was worth loving, whether she had
this or that quality, such or such virtue. He wanted her exactly as she
was; and did not weigh her in any sort of balance. It is possible for
men to love passionately, yet know that their passion is but desire,
possible for men to love for sheer spiritual worth, feeling that the
loved one lacks this or that charm.

Summerhay's love had no such divided consciousness. About her past,
too, he dismissed speculation. He remembered having heard in the
hunting-field that she was Winton's natural daughter; even then it had
made him long to punch the head of that covertside scandal-monger. The
more there might be against the desirability of loving her, the more he
would love her; even her wretched marriage only affected him in so far
as it affected her happiness. It did not matter--nothing mattered except
to see her and be with her as much as she would let him. And now she
was going to the sea for a month, and he himself--curse it!--was due in
Perthshire to shoot grouse. A month!

He walked slowly along the river. Dared he speak? At times, her face was
like a child's when it expects some harsh or frightening word. One could
not hurt her--impossible! But, at times, he had almost thought she would
like him to speak. Once or twice he had caught a slow soft glance--gone
the moment he had sight of it.

He was before his time, and, leaning on the river parapet, watched the
tide run down. The sun shone on the water, brightening its yellowish
swirl, and little black eddies--the same water that had flowed along
under the willows past Eynsham, past Oxford, under the church at
Clifton, past Moulsford, past Sonning. And he thought: 'My God! To have
her to myself one day on the river--one whole long day!' Why had he been
so pusillanimous al