And then he, devoured as he had been by his love, had
been unable to use his faculties; he could do nothing but glare and
wink, while his treasure was stolen from him; he had made mistakes
at every turn. What would he not give now to be restored to his
old, balanced, easy life, with its little friendships and duties.
How fantastic and unreal his aunt's theories seemed to him,
reveries contrived just to gild the gaps of a broken life, a
dramatisation of emptiness and self-importance. At every moment the
face and figure of Maud came before him in a hundred sweet,
spontaneous movements--the look of her eyes, the slow thrill of her
voice. He needed her with all his soul--every fibre of his being
cried out for her. And then the thought of being thus pitifully
overcome, humiliated and degraded him. If she had not been
beautiful, he would perhaps never have thought of her except with a
mild and courteous interest. This was the draught of life which he
had put so curiously to his lips, sweet and heady to taste, but
with what infinite bitterness and disgust in the cup. It had robbed
him of everything--of his work, of his temperate ecstasies in sight
and sound, of his intellectual enthusiasm. His life was all broken
to pieces about him; he had lost at once all interest and all sense
of dignity. He was simply a man betrayed by a passion, which had
fevered him just because his life had been so orderly and pure. He
was not strong enough even to cut himself adrift from it all.
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