and over again. What did he care? But he did, and could not deceive
himself. He did care, and must not; and then he went back over all
their intercourse since her return home, two or three months before he
left, and it was all alike on her part--a cool, indifferent avoidance
of him.

Oh, she was so glorious--so beautiful! The whole world lay in the
span of her slender waist--a world not for him. Was it something to
be adventured for, fought for, found anywhere? something that he could
climb up to and take? something to plunge down to in fathomless ocean
and carry back? No, it was her woman's heart. Like her father, she
disliked him; and if, like her father, she would openly let him see
and hear it--but doesn't she? What had he to offer her? How could he
overcome her father's dislike? He felt in his soul what would come to
him finally, but then, in the lapsing time? And she avoided him now!

He returned to his algebraic problem, with a desperate plunge at its
solution. The unknown quantity remained unknown; and, a moment later,
he was gratified to see how he had finally caught and expressed, with
his pencil, a look of Julia, that had always eluded him before. But
was he to be overcome by a girl? Was life and its ambitions to be
crushed out and brought to nought by one small hand? He would see. It
would be inexpressible luxury to tell her once--but just once--all his
passion and worship, and then, of course, remain silent forever, and
go out of her presence. He wished her to know it all, so that, as she
would hear and know of him in the coming years, she would know that he
was worthy, not of her love, but worthy to love her, whatever that may
mean, or whatever of comfort it might bring to either. What precious
logic the heart of a young man in his twenty-second year is capable
of!