Waymark's absence that evening had been voluntary. His work had come to
a standstill; his waking hours were passed in a restless misery which
threatened to make him ill. And to-night he had not dared to go to Ida;
in his present state the visit could have but one result, and even yet
he hoped that such a result might not come about. He left home and
wandered about the streets till early morning. All manner of projects
occupied him. He all but made up his mind to write a long letter to Ida
and explain his position without reserve. But he feared lest the result
of that might be to make Ida hide away from him once more, and to this
loss he could not reconcile himself. Yet he was further than ever from
the thought of giving himself wholly to her, for the intenser his
feeling grew, the more clearly he recognised its character. This was not
love he suffered from, but mere desire. To let it have its way would be
to degrade Ida. Love might or might not follow, and how could he place
her at the mercy of such a chance as that? Her faith and trust in him
were absolute; could he take advantage of it for his own ends? And, for
all these fine arguments, Waymark saw with perfect clearness how the
matter would end.
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