I saw now that my love for Viola was not wholly a gain, not something extra added to my life’s-cup that made it full to overflowing, but, as always in this life, something had been taken away as well as added.

I felt as a child might feel who was presented with a magnificent gift with which he was overjoyed, but who on taking it to the nursery to add to his other treasures, saw his nurse locking these all away from him for ever in a glass case above his reach.

As the child might, I hugged my new gift to me and delighted in it, but I could not help feeling regret for those other small, glittering toys with which I had formerly played so much, now shut away behind the deadly glass pane of conscience.

It was not that Veronica appealed to me specially.  I did not feel I cared whether she came to the studio again or not except for the picture, but the great principle involved, now that I was face to face with it, appalled me.

Viola had sought to leave me free, by refusing marriage with me; but, after all, what difference does the mere nominal tie make?

The essential attribute of a great passion—­something that cannot be eliminated from it—­is the chain of fidelity it forges round its prisoners.

I do not know how long I sat there, but at last I rose mechanically, put the sheets of paper together, and went downstairs.

As I came to the drawing-room door I heard that Viola was playing.  The door stood ajar, and silently I entered and took my seat behind her.  She was improvising, just playing as the inspiration came to her, and wholly absorbed and unconscious of my presence.  There was a great glass facing her, in which her whole image was reflected, and had she glanced into it she must have seen me; but she did not.  Her eyes gazed out before her, wrapt, delighted; her face was quite white, her lips parted in a little smile.

I saw she was under the influence of her music and absolutely happy, full of joy, such as I could never give her.  A great jealousy ran through me, kindling all that passion I had for her.  The thoughts and reflections of an hour back seemed swept out of mind like dead leaves before a storm.  No other lighter loves could give me one-tenth of the emotion that the pursuit and conquest of this strange soul could do.  For I had not conquered it.  It was absorbed in, and lived in mysteries of joy that its art alone could give it, and I was outside—­almost a stranger to it.

The thought burnt and stung me, and the fire of it wrapped round me as I sat watching her.  That body, so slim, so perfect, she had given me, but I wanted more, I wanted that inner spirit to be mine, I wanted to conquer that.

I watched her in a fierce, jealous anger, almost as I might have done seeing her caressed by another lover, she was so wonderfully happy, so independent of me, so unconscious of me; but man loves that which is above him, difficult to obtain, hard to pursue.  We cannot help it.  We are made to be hunters, and I felt I loved Viola then with fresh passion.