Jerome's mind, during the two days after the party, was in a sort of dazzle of efflorescence, and could not precipitate any clear ideas for his own understanding.

Love had been so outside his calculation of life, that his imagination, even, had scarcely grasped the possibility of it.
He worked on stolidly, having all the time before his mental vision, like one with closed eyes in a bright room, a shifting splendor as of strange scenes and clouds.
He could not sleep nor eat, his spirit seemed to inhabit his flesh so thoroughly as to do away with the material needs of it.

Still, all things that appealed to his senses seemed enhanced in power, becoming so loud and so magnified that they produced a confusion of hearing and vision.

The calls of the spring birds sounded as if in his very ear, with an insistence of meaning; the spring flowers bloomed where he had never seen them, and the fragrance of each was as evident to him as a voice.
Jerome wondered vaguely if this strange exaltation of spirit were illness.

Sunday morning, when he could not eat his breakfast, his mother told him that there were red spots on his cheeks, and she feared he was feverish.
He laughed scornfully at the idea, but looked curiously at himself in his little square of mirror, when he was dressing for meeting.