impressed--her. He could easily, he knew, form a friendship with them;
arrange to see her often. He was going to meet her tonight, through his
own arrangement. He would get them to come and dine with him soon--no,
the next day.

What was the good?

Well, where was the harm?

Aylmer had about the same code of morals as the best of his numerous
friends in Bohemia, in clubland and in social London. He was no more
scrupulous on most subjects than the ordinary man of his own class.
Still, _he had been married himself_. That made an immense difference,
for he was positively capable of seeing (and with sympathy) from the
husband's point of view. Even now, indifferent as he had been to his
own wife, and after ten years, it would have caused him pain and fury
had he found out that she had ever tried to play him false. Of course,
cases varied. He knew that if Edith had been free his one thought would
have been to marry her. Had she been different, and differently placed,
he would have blindly tried for anything he could get, in any possible
way. But, as she was?... He felt convinced he could never succeed in
making her care for him; there was not the slightest chance of it. And,
supposing even that he could? And here came in the delicacy and scruple
of the man who had been married himself. He thought he wouldn't even
wish to spoil, by the vulgarity of compromising, or by the shadow of a
secret, the serenity of her face, the gay prettiness of that life. No,
he wouldn't if he could. And yet how exciting it would be to rouse her
from that cool composure. She was rather enigmatic. But he thought she
could be roused. And she was so clever. How well she would carry it
off! How she would never bore a man! And he suddenly imagined a day