He was a man of spirit; he was proud and energetic; he would have thrown it off.

If he could have been angry with her, or despised her, he could have cured himself in time.

Instead of that, all the recollections were of an almost sickening sweetness; particularly that kiss on the day he went to see her.

And the other, the _second_, was also the last; so it had a greater bitterness.
'Rapture sharper than a sword, Joy like o sudden spear.' These words, casually read somewhere, came back to him whenever he remembered her! Aylmer had read, heard of these obsessions, but never believed in them.
It was folly, madness! He stood up, tossing his head as though to throw it off.
He went to fetch some friends, went with them to see pictures, to have tea, and to drive in the Bois, accepting also an invitation to dine with a man--a nice boy--a fellow who had been at Oxford with him, and was at the embassy here, a young attache.
He was quite nice: a little dull, and a little too fond of talking about his chief.
Aylmer got home at about half-past six to dress for dinner.

Then the torture began again.