Perfectly aware that it would have been horribly vulgar to abuse his old friend or to tell his companion the story of their quarrel, it yet vexed him that her depth of reserve should give him no opening and should have the effect of a magnanimity greater even than his own.
He challenged himself, denounced himself, asked himself if he were in love with her that he should care so much what adventures she had had.
He had never for a moment allowed he was in love with her; therefore nothing could have surprised him more than to discover he was jealous.
What but jealousy could give a man that sore contentious wish for the detail of what would make him suffer?
Well enough he knew indeed that he should never have it from the only person who to-day could give it to him.

She let him press her with his sombre eyes, only smiling at him with an exquisite mercy and breathing equally little the word that would expose her secret and the word that would appear to deny his literal right to bitterness.

She told nothing, she judged nothing; she accepted everything but the possibility of her return to the old symbols.
Stransom divined that for her too they had been vividly individual, had stood for particular hours or particular attributes--particular links in her chain.

He made it clear to himself, as he believed, that his difficulty lay in the fact that the very nature of the plea for his faithless friend constituted a prohibition; that it happened to have come from _her_ was precisely the vice that attached to it.

To the voice of impersonal generosity he felt sure he would have listened; he would have deferred to an advocate who, speaking from abstract justice, knowing of his denial without having known Hague, should have had the imagination to say: "Ah, remember only the best of him; pity him; provide for him." To provide for him on the very ground of having discovered another of his turpitudes was not to pity but to glorify him.