He was often haunted by a sense
of living in a mechanical unreality, of moving simply on lines of
easy habit. That was a tame, a flat business, perhaps; but it was
what seemed to happen.
And yet all the time he was more and more haunted by the thought of
Maud. He could not get her out of his head. Over and over again he
lived through the scenes of their meetings. Against the background
of the dusk, that slender figure outlined itself, the lines of her
form, her looks, her smiles; he went again and again through his
talks with her--the walk on the down, the sight of her in the
dimly-lighted room; he could hear the very tones of her low voice,
and see the childlike appeal of her eyes. Worst of all the scene at
the Vicarage, the book held in her slender fingers, her look of
bewilderment and distress--what a pompous ass he had been, how
stupid and coarse! He thought of writing to her; he did write--but
the dignified patronage of his elder-brotherly style sickened him,
and he tore up his unfinished letter. Why could he not simply say
that he cared for her, and was miserable at having hurt her? That
was just, he thought, what he must not do; and yet the idea that
she might be making other friends and acquaintances was a jealous
horror to him. He thought of writing to his aunt about it--he did
write regularly to her, but he could not explain what he had done.
Strangest of all, he hardly recognised it as love. He did not face
the idea of a possible life with Maud.
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