They drove to the Knickerbocker Hotel, and he took a small suite, one of the smallest and least luxurious in the house, for with all his desire to make her feel the contrast of her change of circumstances sharply, he could not forget how limited his income was, and how unwise it would be to have to move in a few days to humbler quarters.  He hoped that the rooms, englamoured by the hotel’s general air of costly luxury, would sufficiently impress her.  And while she gave no strong indication but accepted everything in her wonted quiet, passive manner, he was shrewd enough to see that she was content.  “To-morrow,” he said to himself, “after she has done some shopping, the last regret will leave her, and her memory of that clerk will begin to fade fast.  I’ll give her too much else to think about.”

* * * * *

The following morning, when they faced each other at breakfast in their sitting room, he glanced at her from time to time in wonder and terror.  She looked not merely insignificant, but positively homely.  Her skin had a sickly pallor; her hair seemed to be of many different and disagreeable shades of uninteresting dead yellow.  Her eyes suggested faded blue china dishes, with colorless lashes and reddened edges of the lids.  Her lips had lost their rosy freshness, her teeth their sparkling whiteness.

His heavy heart seemed to be resting nauseously upon the pit of his stomach.  Was his infatuation sheer delusion, with no basis of charm in her at all?  Was she, indeed, nothing but this unattractive, faded little commonplaceness?—­a poor specimen of an inferior order of working girl?  What an awakening!  And she was his wife!—­was his companion for the yet more brilliant career he had resolved and was planning!  He must introduce her everywhere, must see the not to be concealed amazement in the faces of his acquaintances, must feel the cruel covert laughter and jeering at his weak folly!  Was there ever in history or romance a parallel to such fatuity as his?  Why, people would be right in thinking him a sham, a mere bluffer at the high and strong qualities he was reputed to have.

Had Norman been, in fact, the man of ice and iron the compulsions of a career under the social system made him seem, the homely girl opposite him that morning would speedily have had something to think about other than her unhappiness of the woman who has given her person to one man and her heart to another.  Instead, the few words he addressed to her were all gentleness and forbearance.  Stronger than his chagrin was his pity for her—­the poor, unconscious victim of his mad hallucination.  If she thought about the matter at all, she assumed that he was still the slave of her charms—­for, the florid enthusiasm of man’s passion inevitably deludes the woman into fancying it objective instead of wholly subjective; and, only the rare very wise woman, after much experience, learns to be suspicious of the validity of her own charms and to concentrate upon keeping up the man’s delusions.