Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears.

Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl.

If he adhered to this policy--to keep away from her inconspicuously--she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.

That was life.

They were only passers-by.
Drink for him had a queer phase.