Aylmer went and sat alone outside the café. It was not his nature to
dwell on his own sensations. He would diagnose them quickly and
acutely, and then throw them aside. He was quickly bored with himself;
he was no egotist. But today, he thought, he _would_ analyse his state,
to see what could be done.

Six weeks! He had not seen her for six weeks. The longing was no
better. The pain seemed to begin at his throat, pressing down gradually
on the chest It was that feeling of oppression, he supposed, that makes
one sigh; as though there were a weight on the heart. And certain
little memories made it acute; sudden flashing vivid recollection of
that last drive was like a sharp jagged tear. Had they ever been on
nearer terms, and had she treated him badly, it would not have caused
this slow and insidious suffering. 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!