She had never asked him to go away. It was his own idea. He had come
away to get over it. Well, he hadn't got over it. He was worse. But it
wasn't because he didn't see her; no, he didn't deceive himself. The
more he saw of her the worse he would be. Not one man in a thousand was
capable of feeling so intensely and deeply as Aylmer felt, and never in
his life before had he felt anything like it. And now it came on again
with the ebb and flow of passion, like an illness. Why was he so
miserable--why would nothing else do? He suddenly remembered with a
smile that when he was five years old he had adored a certain nurse,
and for some reason or other his mother sent her away. He had cried and
cried for her to come back. He remembered even now how people had said:
'Oh, the child will soon forget.' But he wore out their patience; he
cried himself to sleep every night. And his perseverance had at last
been rewarded. After six weeks the nurse came back. His mother sent for
her in despair at the boy's misery. How well he remembered that evening
and her plain brown face, with the twinkling eyes. How he kissed his
mother, and thanked her! The nurse stayed till he went to school and
then he soon forgot all about her. Perhaps it was in his nature at rare
intervals to want one particular person so terribly, to pine and die
for someone!

That was a recollection of babyhood, and yet he remembered even now
that obstinate, aching longing.... He suddenly felt angry, furious.
What was Edith doing now? Saying good-night to Archie and Dilly? They
certainly did look, as she had said, heavenly angels in their night
attire (he had been privileged to see them). Then she was dressing for
dinner and going out with Bruce. Good heavens! what noble action had
Bruce ever done for _him_ that he should go away? Why make such a
sacrifice--for Bruce?