Pierce Phillips’ life was ruined.  He was sure of it.  Precisely what constituted a ruined life, just how much such a one differed from a successful life, he had only the vaguest idea, but his own, at the moment, was tasteless, spoiled.  Dire consequences were bound to follow such a tragedy as this, so he told himself, and he looked forward with gloomy satisfaction to their realization; whatever they should prove to be, however terrible the fate that was to overtake him, the guilt, the responsibility therefor, lay entirely upon the heartless woman who had worked the evil, and he earnestly hoped they would be brought home to her.

Yes, the Countess Courteau was heartless, wicked, cruel.  Her unsuspected selfishness, her lack of genuine sentiment, her cool, calculating caution, were shocking.  Pierce had utterly misread her at first; that was plain.

That he was really hurt, deeply distressed, sorely aggrieved, was true enough, for his love—­infatuation, if you will—­was perfectly genuine and exceedingly vital.  Nothing is more real, more vital, than a normal boy’s first infatuation, unless it be the first infatuation of a girl; precisely wherein it differs from the riper, less demonstrative affection that comes with later years and wider experience is not altogether plain.  Certainly it is more spontaneous, more poignant; certainly it has in it equal possibilities for good or evil.  How deep or how disfiguring the scar it leaves depends entirely upon the healing process.  But, for that matter, the same applies to every heart affair.

Had Phillips been older and wiser he would not have yielded so readily to despair; experience would have taught him that a woman’s “No” is not a refusal; wisdom would have told him that the absolute does not exist.  But, being neither experienced nor wise, he mistook the downfall of his castle for the wreck of the universe, and it never occurred to him that he could salvage something, or, if need be, rebuild upon the same foundations.

What he could neither forget nor forgive at this moment was the fact that Hilda had not only led him to sacrifice his honor, or its appearance, but also that when he had managed to reconcile himself to that wrong she had lacked the courage to meet him half-way.  There were but two explanations of her action:  either she was weak and cowardly or else she did not love him.  Neither afforded much consolation.

In choosing a course of conduct no man is strong enough to divorce himself entirely from his desires, to follow the light of pure reason, for memories, impulses, yearnings are bound to bring confusion.  Although Pierce told himself that he must renounce this woman—­that he had renounced her—­nevertheless he recalled with a thrill the touch of her bare arms and the perfume of her streaming golden hair as he had buried his face in it, and the keenness of those memories caused him to cry out.  The sex-call had been stronger than he had realized; therefore, to his present grief was added an inescapable, almost irresistible feeling of physical distress—­a frenzy of balked desire—­which caused him to waver irresolutely, confusing the issue dreadfully.