hordes from the German forests when they first poured down over the Alps and beheld the jewels and marbles and round, smooth, soft women of Italy’s ancient civilization.  But at the same time he had the unmistakable, the terrifying feeling of dare-devil sacrilege.  What were his coarse hands doing, dabbling in silks and cobweb laces and embroideries?  Silk fascinated him; but, while he did not like calico so well, he felt at home with it.  Yes, he had seized her, had crushed her madly in the embrace of his plowman arms.  But that seemed now a freak of courage, a drunken man’s deed, wholly beyond the nerve of sobriety.

Then, on top of all this awe was his reverence for her as an aristocrat, a representative of people who had for generations been far removed above the coarse realities of the only life he knew.  And it was this adoration of caste that determined him.  He might overcome his awe of her person and dress, of her tangible trappings; but how could he ever hope to bridge the gulf between himself and her intangible superiorities?  He was ashamed of himself, enraged against himself for this feeling of worm gazing up at star.  It made a mockery of all his arrogant, noisy protestations of equality and democracy.

“The fault is not in my ideas,” thought he; “They’re all right.  The fault’s in me—­damned snob that I am!”

Clearly, if he was to be what he wished, if he was to become what he had thought he was, he must get away from this sinister influence, from this temptation that had made him, at first onset, not merely stumble, but fall flat and begin to grovel.  “She is a superior woman—­that is no snob notion of mine,” reflected he.  “But from the way I falter and get weak in the knees, she ought to be superhuman—­which she isn’t, by any means.  No, there’s only one thing to do—­keep away from her.  Besides, I’d feel miserable with her about as my wife.”  My wife!  The very words threw him into a cold sweat.

So the note was written, was feverishly dispatched.

No sooner was it sent than it was repented.  “What’s the matter with me?” demanded he of himself, as his courage came swaggering back, once the danger had been banished.  “Why, the best is not too good for me.  She is the best, and mighty proud she ought to be of a man who, by sheer force of character, has lifted himself to where I am and who, is going to be what I shall be.  Mighty proud!  There are only two realities—­money and brains.  I’ve certainly got more brains than she or any of her set; as for money, she hasn’t got that.  The superiority is all on my side.  I’m the one that ought to feel condescending.”