“A man born out of his time, in whom the disintegration of custom, the fusing of the classes, produces an inner torment.”  And wondering how he bore it, Owen began to think of an end for Harding, deciding that sullen despair would take possession of him if the House of Lords were seriously threatened.  He would leave some seat of ancient story, and proceed towards the midlands, seeking some blast furnace wherein to throw himself.  “A sort of modern Empedocles.”  And Owen laughed aloud, for he was very much amused at his interpretation of his friend’s character.  It was one which he did not think even his friend would resent.  “On the contrary, it would amuse him.”  And he picked up a newspaper from the club table.

The first words he saw were “Evelyn Innes in America.”  “So she has gone back to the stage, and without writing to me....”  He sank back in his armchair lost in a great bitterness but without resentment.  Next day, acting on a sudden resolve, he started for New York.  But he did not remain there very long, only a few days, returning to England, exasperated, maddened against himself, unable to explain the cause of his misfortune to Harding.

“I suppose you’ll use it in a novel some day.  I don’t care if you do, but you will never be able to explain how it happened.”  Harding followed his friend into the study, thinking of the excellent cigar which would be given to him more perhaps than of the story—­a man who suddenly finds his will paralysed.  “It was just that, paralysis of will, for after dinner when the time came to go to her I sat thinking of her, unable to get out of my chair, saying to myself, ’In five minutes, in five minutes,’ and as the minutes went by I looked at the clock, saying to myself, ‘If I don’t go now I shall be late.’  I can’t explain, but it was almost a relief when I found it was too late.”

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t go next day?”

“Nor do I; for naturally I wanted to see her, only I couldn’t go, something held me back, and in despair I returned to England, unable to endure the strain.  There you have it, Harding; don’t ask me any more for I can’t tell you any more.  During the voyage I was near out of my mind, and could have thrown myself overboard, yet I couldn’t go to see her, though she is the only person I really care to see.  Of course friends are different,” he added apologetically.

“And you could not forget her in the desert?” “No, it only made me worse.  Amid the sands her image would appear more distinct than ever.  Now why is it that one loves one woman more than another, and what is there in this woman that enchants me, and from whom I cannot escape in thought?...  Yet I didn’t go to see her in New York.”