He had to take a little brandy to steady himself--yet he had looked into menacing rifle-barrels more than once without a tremor.

It was clear, on the face of it, that Delia and her mother should be his companions in the Park, and not this grave little half-breed; but, somehow, it got on his nerves.

He hesitated for days before he could cast the die against Jacques.

It had been the one open bond of the old life; yet the man was but a servant, and to be treated as such, and was, indeed, except on rarest occasions.
If Delia had known that Gaston balanced the matter between her and Jacques, her indignation might perhaps have sent matters to a crisis.
But Gaston did the only possible thing; and the weeks drifted on.
Happy?
It was inexplicable even to himself that at times, when he left Delia, he said unconsciously: "Well, it's a pity!" But she was happy in her way.

His dark, mysterious face with its background of abstraction, his unusual life, distinguished presence, and the fact that people of great note sought his conversation, all strengthened the bonds, and deepened her imagination; and imagination is at the root of much that passes for love.