It was this, then, that was
the matter with him--he was in love, he was jealous, he was the
victim of the oldest, simplest, commonest, strongest emotion of
humanity. His eyes were opened. How had he not seen it before? His
broodings over the thought of Maud, the strange disturbance that
came on him in her presence, that absurd desire to do or say
something impressive, coupled with that wretched diffidence that
kept him silent and helpless--it was love! He became half dizzy
with the thought of what it all meant; and at the same instant,
Maud seemed to recede from him as something impossibly pure, sweet,
and unapproachable. All that notion of a paternal close friendship--
how idiotic it was! He wanted her, at every moment, to share every
thought with her, to claim every thought of hers, to see her, to
clasp her close; and then at the same moment came the terrible
disillusionment; how was he, a sober, elderly, stiff-minded
professional person, to recommend himself? What was there in him
that any girl could find even remotely attractive--his middle-aged
habits, his decorous and conventional mind, his clumsy dress, his
grizzled hair? He felt of himself that he was ravaged with age and
decrepitude, and yet in his folly he had suggested this visit, and
he had thrown the girl he loved out of her lonely life, craving for
sympathy and interest, into a set of young men all apt for passion
and emotion. The thought of Guthrie with his charm, his wealth, his
aplomb, fell cold on his heart.
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