He stood up, tossing his head as though to throw it off.

He went to fetch some friends, went with them to see pictures, to have
tea, and to drive in the Bois, accepting also an invitation to dine
with a man--a nice boy--a fellow who had been at Oxford with him, and
was at the embassy here, a young attaché.

He was quite nice: a little dull, and a little too fond of talking
about his chief.

Aylmer got home at about half-past six to dress for dinner. Then the
torture began again. It was always worse towards evening--an agony of
longing, regret, fury, vague jealousy and desire.

He stood and looked out of the window again at the crowd, hurrying
along now to their pleasures or their happy homes. So many people in
the world, like stars in the sky--why want the one star only? Why cry
for the moon?

He had no photograph of her, but he still thought she was like his
mother's miniature, and often looked at it. He wished he wasn't going
to dine with that young man tonight. Aylmer was the most genial and
sociable of men; he usually disliked being alone; yet just now being
with people bored him; it seemed an interruption. He was going through
a crisis.

Yes; he could not stand anyone this evening. He rang the bell and sent
a _petit bleu_ to say he was prevented from dining with his friend.
What a relief when he had sent this--now he could think of her alone
in peace....