e had not primarily come back to atone for
the suffering he had inflicted on Rosie, or because his love for her was
such that he couldn't live without her. He had come back to propitiate
the demon within himself--the demon or the god, he was not sure which it
was, for it possessed the attributes of both. He had come back to escape
the chastisement his soul inflicted on itself--because without coming
back he could no longer be a man. He had come back because the Furies
had driven him with their whip of knotted snakes, and he could do
nothing but yield to their hounding. If Lois thought that traveling in
the West was beer and skittles when hunted and scourged by yourself like
that--well, she had better try it and see.

What she must understand already was that Rosie and happiness had become
minor considerations. He would sacrifice both to regain a measure of his
self-respect. He had never supposed, and he didn't suppose now, that
Rosie would be happy in marrying him, but that was no longer to the
point. The demon or the god must be appeased, at no matter what cost to
the victim.

He made these explanations not straightforwardly or concisely, but with
rambling digressions that took him over half the Middle West. He
described, or hinted at, all sorts of scenes, peopled by gay young
business men and garnished by pretty girls, in which he could have
enjoyed himself had it not been for the enemy in his heart. It wasn't
merely that he had thrown over Rosie with a cruelty that made her try to
kill herself, and still less was it that he couldn't live down his love
when once he set about it. It was that the Claude who might have been
was strangled and slain, leaving him no inner fellowship but with the
Claude who was. Reviving the Claude who might have been was like
reviving a corpse, and yet there was nothing to do but make the attempt.

"I'm a gentlemen--what?" he asked, raising his white face pitifully. "I
must act like a gentlemen--what?"

"Yes, but if it's too late, Claude--for that particular thing?"

"Oh, but it isn't--it won't be--not when she sees me."

"It might be; and if she doesn't want it, Claude, I don't see why you--"

"You don't see why because you're not me. If you were, you would. A
woman hasn't a man's sense of honor, anyhow."

She let this pass with an inward smile in order to say, "But, Claude,
suppose you _can't_ do it?"

He twisted his neck, with his customary chafing, irritated movement.
"I'll do