The brief year of it had been poignant and at the end he had gone forth upon the hills, praying for death.

That girl of long ago with the black-lashed eyes of Irish blue like Brian's, he had loved with all the passionate tumult of boyhood; and in the end he had lived for Brian, coming to believe as life carelessly unfolded for him its book of heart-things that in time he must have tired.

Lived for Brian! Had he?
Or had he lived for himself?
The memory he had crushed out of his heart in a panic long ago, now left him with a terrified sense of obligation.

Why in this dreadful moment of crisis when he had to think must even his memories accuse him?
Brian! Brian! Always Brian! The pang was spasmodic.

The immensity of his love for Joan swept everything before it and filled him with terror and amazement.