The respectable
make-believe which takes the form of domestic sentiment, that
everyday love, which, become the servant of habit, suffices to
cement the ordinary household, is not the state in which such men as
Waymark seek or find repose; the very possibility of falling into it
unawares is a dread to them. If he could but feel at all times as he
had felt at moments in Maud's presence. It might be that the growth
of intimacy, of mutual knowledge, would make his love for her a more
real motive in his life. He would endeavour that it should be so.
Yet there remained that fatal conviction of the unreality of every
self-persuasion save in relation to the influences of the moment. To
love was easy, inevitable; to concentrate love finally on one object
might well prove, in his case, an impossibility. Clear enough to him
already was the likelihood of a strong revulsion of feeling when Ida
once more came back, and the old life--if it could be--was
resumed. Compassion would speak so loudly for her; her face, pale
and illuminated with sorrow, would throw a stronger spell than ever
upon his senses. Well, there was no help. Whatever would be, would
be. It availed nothing to foresee and scheme and resolve.
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