mes she wanted to be alone.
No doubt she had gone to look at the great view from some hidden place.
Well, then, he ought not to try to find her, he ought to respect her
wish to be by herself. But this evening it hurt him. As he stood there
he felt wounded, for he remembered telling her that the great view would
be much more beautiful at sunset when the moon would be rising behind
them. The implication of course had been, "Wait a little and I'll
show you." It was he who had chosen the place for the camp, he who had
prepared the surprise. Perhaps foolishly, he had thought of the whole
thing, even of the plain, the river, the mountains, the sea and the
Island of Zante, as a sort of possession which he was going gloriously
to share with her. And now----! He felt deprived, almost wronged. The
sky was changing. He turned and looked to the east. Above Olympia, in
a clear and tremulous sky, a great silver moon was rising. It was his
hour, and she had hidden herself.

Again, at that moment, Dion felt almost afraid of his love.

His pipe had gone out. He took it from his lips, bent, and knocked out
the tobacco against the heel of his boot. He was horribly disappointed,
but he was not going to search for Rosamund; nor was he ever going to
let her know of his disappointment. Perhaps by concealing it he would
kill it. He thrust his pipe into his pocket, hesitated, then walked a
little way from the camp and sat down on the side of the hill. What rot
it was his always wanting to share everything now. Till he met Rosamund
he had always thought only women could never be happy unless they shared
their pleasures, and preferably with a man. Love apparently could
play the very devil, bridge the gulf between sexes, make a man who was
thoroughly masculine in all his tastes and habits have "little feelings"
which belonged properly only to women.

Doric! Suddenly the word jumped up in his mind, and a vision of the
Parthenon columns rose before his imagination, sternly glorious, almost
with the strength of a menace. He set his teeth together and cursed
himself for a fool and a backslider.

Rosamund and he were to be Doric. Well, this evening he didn't know
exactly what he was, but he certainly was not Doric.

Just then he heard the sound of a shot. He did not know what direction
it came from, but, fantastically enough, it seemed to be a comment on
his thought, a brusk, decisive exclamation flung at him from out of the
silent evening. "Senti