He was, beyond any question, in love with her, if the name of love can be given to the fierce, intolerant passion that governed him.
He made no attempt to disguise his feelings, was as rude to the rest of us as he pleased, and, of course, flung his scorn plentifully over Trenchard.

But now I seemed to detect in him some shades of restlessness and anxiety that I had never seen in him before.

He was not sure of her; he did not, I believe, understand her any more than did the rest of us.

With justice, indeed, I was afraid for her.

His passion, I thought, was as surely and as nakedly a physical one as any other that I had seen precede it, and would as certainly pass as all purely physical passions do.