He tingled in the ears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would think of it, if by any misfortune it were ever suggested to her.
Then why not, in the name of common sense, cease to ponder such follies, and get on with the work which waited for him?
Why this fluttering about a flame which scorched him more and more dangerously?
It was not the first time that he had experienced temptations of this kind; a story of five years ago, its scene in London, should have reminded him that he could stand a desperate wrench when convinced that his life's purpose depended upon it.

Here were three years of trusteeship before him--he could not, or would not, count on her marrying before she came of age.

Her letters would still come; from time to time doubtless he must meet her.

It had all resulted from this confounded journey taken together! Why, knowing himself sufficiently, did he consent to meet the people at Genoa, loitering there for a couple of days in expectancy?
Why had he come to Italy at all just now?
The answers to all such angry queries were plain enough, however he had hitherto tried to avoid them.

He was a lonely man like his father, but not content with loneliness; friendship was always strong to tempt him, and when the thought of something more than friendship had been suffered to take hold upon his imagination, it held with terrible grip, burning, torturing.