And I'm not sure that I won't tell Eva Delarue, just to show it to her.

She's as close as wax." One feels a certain sorrow for the lover on his homeward way, squaring his shoulders against the foolish perversity of the feminine mind, resolutely guarding his heart from any hint of real reprobation.

Through the sweetness of her lips and the affection of her pretty eyes, through all his half-possession of all her charms and graces, must have come dully the sense of his great occasion manque, that dear day of love when it leaves the mark of its claim.

And in one's regret there is perhaps some alloy of pity, that less respectful thing.

We know him elsewhere capable of essaying heights, yet we seem to look down upon the drama of his heart.