It was a fight between himself and Mary Standish as she had stood against his door.

Mary Standish--the slim beauty of her--her courage--a score of things that had never touched his life before.

He undressed and put on his smoking-gown and slippers, repudiating the honesty of the emotions that were struggling for acknowledgment within him.

He was a bit mad and entirely a fool, he told himself.

But the assurance did him no good.
He went to bed, propped himself up against his pillows, and made another effort to read.