CHAPTER XIX.
There is no wild wind in his soul, No strength of flood or fire; He knows no force beyond control, He feels no deep desire.
He knows no altitudes above, No passions elevate; All is but mockery of love, And mimicry of hate.
-- EDGAR VINE HALL.
The morning after the storm Wentworth was sitting in the library at Barford, looking out across the garden to the down.

Behind the down lay Priesthope, where Fay was.
He was thinking of her.

This shewed a frightful lapse in his regulated existence.

So far he had allowed the remembrance of Fay to invade him only in the evenings over his cigarette, or when he was pacing amid his purpling beeches.
Was she now actually beginning to invade his mornings, those mornings sacred to the history of Sussex?
No! No! Dismiss the extravagant surmise.

Wentworth was far more interested in his attitude towards a thing or person--in what he called his point of view--than in the thing viewed.
He was distinctly attracted by Fay, but he was more occupied with his feelings about her than with herself.