to give, never interfered with more important, if not more admirable, pursuits.  That was the rarest of combinations, he knew—­the delightful mingling of every virtue he held desirable in woman—­and yet, rare and delightful as he acknowledged it to be, he was obliged to confess that it awakened not the faintest quiver of his pulses.  Margaret aroused in him every sentiment except the one of interest; and he had begun to realize that at the moments when he admired her most, it was often impossible for him to make conversation.  It had never occurred to him to wonder if their association had become emotionally unprofitable to her also, for in accordance with the system under which he lived, he had assumed that woman’s part in love was as heroically passive as it had been in religion.  What he had asked himself again and again was why, since she was so perfectly desirable in every way, he had never fallen in love with her?  Until this evening he had always told himself that it would come right in the end, that he was in his own phrase simply “playing for time.”  Margaret was handsomer, if less piquant, than Patty Vetch.  She possessed every quality he had found lacking in poor Patty; yet he admitted ruefully that he felt the vague sense of disappointment which follows when one is offered a dish of one’s choice and finds that the expected flavour is missing.

There was a peremptory knock at his door, and his mother looked in reproachfully.  “You must hurry, Stephen, or everything will be burned to a cinder.”

“I am sorry,” he replied with compunction, “I didn’t realize that I was late.”

Her expression was stern but kind.  “If you could only learn to be punctual, dear.  Of course while we felt that you were not quite yourself, we tried not to worry about it.  But you have been home so long now that you ought to be able to drop back into your old habits.”

She was right, he knew; the exasperating thing about her was that she was always right.  It was reasonable, it was logical, that after two years he should be able to drop back into his old habits of life; and yet he realized, with the intensity of revolt, that these habits represented for him the form of bondage from which he desired passionately to escape.  He could not oppose his mother, and the knowledge that he could not oppose her increased his annoyance.  As far back as he could remember she had governed her household as a benevolent despot; and the fact that she lived entirely for others appeared to him to have endowed her with some unfair advantage.  Her very unselfishness had developed into an unscrupulous power to ruin their lives.  How was it possible to weigh one’s personal preferences against an irresistible force which was actuated simply and solely by the desire for one’s good?  Who could withstand a virtue which had encased itself in the first principle of religion—­which gave all things and demanded nothing except the sacrifice of one’s immortal soul?