Renouard muttered something about an appointment and went out into the street.  His inborn sanity could not defend him from a misty creeping jealousy.  He thought that obviously no man of that sort could be worthy of such a woman’s devoted fidelity.  Renouard, however, had lived long enough to reflect that a man’s activities, his views, and even his ideas may be very inferior to his character; and moved by a delicate consideration for that splendid girl he tried to think out for the man a character of inward excellence and outward gifts—­some extraordinary seduction.  But in vain.  Fresh from months of solitude and from days at sea, her splendour presented itself to him absolutely unconquerable in its perfection, unless by her own folly.  It was easier to suspect her of this than to imagine in the man qualities which would be worthy of her.  Easier and less degrading.  Because folly may be generous--could be nothing else but generosity in her; whereas to imagine her subjugated by something common was intolerable.

Because of the force of the physical impression he had received from her personality (and such impressions are the real origins of the deepest movements of our soul) this conception of her was even inconceivable.  But no Prince Charming has ever lived out of a fairy tale.  He doesn’t walk the worlds of Fashion and Finance—­and with a stumbling gait at that.  Generosity.  Yes.  It was her generosity.  But this generosity was altogether regal in its splendour, almost absurd in its lavishness—­or, perhaps, divine.

In the evening, on board his schooner, sitting on the rail, his arms folded on his breast and his eyes fixed on the deck, he let the darkness catch him unawares in the midst of a meditation on the mechanism of sentiment and the springs of passion.  And all the time he had an abiding consciousness of her bodily presence.  The effect on his senses had been so penetrating that in the middle of the night, rousing up suddenly, wide-eyed in the darkness of his cabin, he did not create a faint mental vision of her person for himself, but, more intimately affected, he scented distinctly the faint perfume she used, and could almost have sworn that he had been awakened by the soft rustle of her dress.  He even sat up listening in the dark for a time, then sighed and lay down again, not agitated but, on the contrary, oppressed by the sensation of something that had happened to him and could not be undone.

CHAPTER III

In the afternoon he lounged into the editorial office, carrying with affected nonchalance that weight of the irremediable he had felt laid on him suddenly in the small hours of the night—­that consciousness of something that could no longer be helped.  His patronising friend informed him at once that he had made the acquaintance of the Moorsom party last night.  At the Dunsters, of course.  Dinner.

“Very quiet.  Nobody there.  It was much better for the business.  I say . . .”