and it might
have shone upon his path through life. Beaton never felt so poignantly
the disadvantage of having on any given occasion been wanting to his own
interests through his self-love as in this. He had no one to blame but
himself for what had happened, but he blamed Alma for what might happen
in the future because she shut out the way of retrieval and return. When
be thought of the attitude she had taken toward him, it seemed
incredible, and he was always longing to give her a final chance to
reverse her final judgment. It appeared to him that the time had come for
this now, if ever.

XV.

While we are still young we feel a kind of pride, a sort of fierce
pleasure, in any important experience, such as we have read of or heard
of in the lives of others, no matter how painful. It was this pride, this
pleasure, which Beaton now felt in realizing that the toils of fate were
about him, that between him and a future of which Christine Dryfoos must
be the genius there was nothing but the will, the mood, the fancy of a
girl who had not given him the hope that either could ever again be in
his favor. He had nothing to trust to, in fact, but his knowledge that he
had once had them all; she did not deny that; but neither did she conceal
that he had flung away his power over them, and she had told him that
they never could be his again. A man knows that he can love and wholly
cease to love, not once merely, but several times; he recognizes the fact
in regard to himself, both theoretically and practically; but in regard
to women he cherishes the superstition of the romances that love is once
for all, and forever. It was because Beaton would not believe that Alma
Leighton, being a woman, could put him out of her heart after suffering
him to steal into it, that he now hoped anything from her, and she had
been so explicit when they last spoke of that affair that he did not hope
much. He said to himself that he was going to cast himself on her mercy,
to take whatever chance of life, love, and work there was in her having
the smallest pity on him. If she would have none, then there was but one
thing he could do: marry Christine and go abroad. He did not see how he
could bring this alternative to bear upon Alma; even if she knew what he
would do in case of a final rejection, he had grounds for fearing she
would not care; but he brought it to bear upon himself, and it nerved him
to a desperate courage. He could hardly wait for