Why, when he knew a thing, should he not be prepared for it?
He had a strong will; he _would_ overcome his emotion for her.

He could, at least, make himself treat her, outwardly with the same apparent insolent indifference, as she treated him.
He made a firm resolve once again, he would not speak to her at all, any more than he had done the last three days in Paris.

He would accept the position until the Wrayth rejoicings were over, and then he would certainly make arrangements to go and shoot lions, or travel, or something.

There should be no further "perhaps" about it.

Life, with the agonizing longing for her, seeing her daily and being denied, was more than could be borne.
There was something about Zara's type, the white, exquisite beauty of her skin, her slenderly voluptuous shape, the stormy suggestion of hidden passion in her slumberous eyes, which had always aroused absolutely mad emotions in men.