He liked the girl well enough but he did not want her as he had wanted Eunice Goodward, as he wanted expansively at this moment to want something, somebody--who was not Eunice--he was perfectly clear on this point--but should be in a measure all she stood for to him.

He had renewed in the night, though in so short a time, not less acutely, all the wounded misery of what Eunice had forced upon him.

He was there between the dark and dawn, and here again in the cool of the garden, to taste the full bitterness of the conviction that he was not good enough to be loved.

He was not to be helped from that by the thought, which came hurrying on the heels of the other, that Savilla Dassonville loved him.

He had a moment of almost hating her as she seemed to plead with him, by no motion of her own he was obliged to confess for those raptures, leaping fires, winged rushes, which should have been his portion of their situation.
He hated her for the certainty that if he went away now quietly without saying anything, it would be to visit on her undeservedly all that had come to him from Eunice.