ou for yourself. I'm afraid of
liking Mrs. Fazakerly from the wrong motive."

"You can't like her from the wrong motive. You can't have a motive
at all, if it comes to that. You might have a motive for killing
her, or for cultivating her acquaintance, but not for liking her.
You either like a person or not, and there's an end of it."

"If your motives are not yourself, what are they?"

"Lord only knows. Forces, tendencies, that determine your actions,
which are the very smallest part of you. What you call intuitions,
your feelings--hate (I should say you were a good hater), and
love----" (her eyes, which had been fixed on his, dropped
suddenly), "don't wait for motives. They're the only spontaneous
things about you, the only realities you know." (And of these he had
said just now that the last reality was sex. It was his point of
view, a point from which it appeared that for him Miss Tancred had
no existence.) "Of course there may be some transcendental sense in
which they're not realities at all; but as far as we are concerned
they're not only real, but positively self-existent."

As he thus discoursed, Durant blinked critically at the sky, while
his pencil described an airy curve on the infinite blue, symbolizing
the grace, the fluency, and the vastness of his thought.

"They, if you like, are you. It's very odd that you don't seem to
trust them more."

She had turned from him till her face was a thin outline against the
sky. She had a fine head, and carried it well, too; and at the
moment the twilight dealt tenderly with her dress and face; it
purified the tragic pallor of her forehead and all but defined that
vague, haunting suggestion of a possible charm. Durant had it a
moment ago--there--then. Ah! now he had lost it.

"I daren't trust my feelings. I can't. There are too many of them.
They won't work the same way. They're all fighting against each
other."

"Then let them fight it out, and let the strongest win."

"If I only knew which _was_ the strongest."

"You'll know some day. In the long run, you see, the strongest is
bound to win."

"Not necessarily. There might be a number of little ones that all
together would be stronger still."

"Oh, kill off the little beggars one at a time--go for them,
throttle them, wring their necks, jump on them; and if they wriggle,
_stamp_!"

"You can't jump on your own shadow. You can't stamp on them if
they're _you_."

He groaned. Miss Tancred was getting too