He did not do it deliberately; he made no daring plans; simply he gave himself over to the rising flood of passion, without caring to ask whither it would bear him.

Though it fevered him, there was a luxury in the sense of abandonment once more to desire which suffered no questioning.

That he had ever really loved Beatrice he saw now to be more than doubtful; that he loved Emily was as certain as that he lived.

To compare the images of the two women was to set side by side a life sad and wan with one which bloomed like a royal flower, a face whose lines were wasted by long desolation with one whose loveliness was the fit embodiment of supreme joy.

But in the former he found a beauty of which the other offered no suggestion, a beauty which appealed to him with the most subtle allurements, which drew him as with siren song, which, if he still contemplated it, would inspire him with recklessness.