He called himself "an adventurer in the mysteries of feminism," and to be this successfully he had argued that he must destroy in himself the usual heart-emotions of the sex-man and the animal.
How far he had succeeded in this he himself did not know--until these last moments when he had bid good-bye to Joanne Gray.

He confessed that she had found a cleft in his armour, and there was an uneasy thrill in his blood.
It was not her beauty alone that had affected him.

He had trained himself to look at a beautiful woman as he might have looked at a beautiful flower, confident that if he went beyond the mere admiration of it he would find only burned-out ashes.

But in her he had seen something that was more than beauty, something that for a flashing moment had set stirring every molecule in his being.

He had felt the desire to rest his hand upon her shining hair! He turned off into a winding path that led into the thick poplars, restraining an inclination to look back in the direction of the Otto camp.
He pulled out the pipe he had dropped into his shirt pocket, filled it with fresh tobacco, and began smoking.