The Agonies of Aylmer In the fresh cheerfulness of the early morning, after sleep, with the hot June sun shining in at the window, Aylmer used to think he was better.

He would read his letters and papers, dress slowly, look out of the window at the crowds on the pavement--he had come back to Paris--feel the infectious cheeriness and sense of adventure of the city; then he would say to himself that his trip had been successful.
He _was_ better.

When he went out his heart began to sink a little already, but he fought it off; there would be a glimpse of an English face flashing past in a carriage--he thought of Edith, but he put it aside.

Then came lunch.

For some reason, immediately after lunch his malady--for, of course, such love is a malady--incongruously attacked him in an acute form.