Under the spell of Irene, he felt coldly critical towards all other women; every image of feminine charm paled and grew remote when hers was actually before him, and it would have cost a great effort of mind to assure himself that he had not felt precisely thus ever since the days at Ewell.

The truth was, of course, that though imagination could always restore Irene's supremacy, and constantly did so, though his intellectual being never failed from allegiance to her, his blood had been at the mercy of any face sufficiently alluring.

So it would be again, little as he could now believe it.
Before he departed, he had his wish of a few minutes' talk with her.
The words exchanged were insignificant.

Piers had nothing ready to his tongue but commonplace, and Miss Derwent answered as became her.

As he left the room he suffered a flush of anger, the natural revolt of every being who lives by emotion against the restraints of polite intercourse.