stay in London until she came back to it, and that he might still
send her the gifts he had always laid on her altar. He had not
seen her in three months. Three months that had been to him a
blank, except for his work--which like all else that he did, was
inspired and carried on for her. Now at last she had returned
and had shown that, even as a friend, he was of so little account
in her thoughts, of so little consequence in her life, that after
this long absence she had no desire to learn of his welfare or to
see him--she did not even give him the chance to see her. And
so, placing these facts before him for the first time since
he had loved her, he considered what was due to himself. "Was it
good enough?" he asked. "Was it just that he should continue to
wear out his soul and body for this girl who did not want what he
had to give, who treated him less considerately than a man whom
she met for the first time at dinner? He felt he had reached the
breaking-point; that the time had come when he must consider what
he owed to himself. There could never be any other woman save
Helen, but as it was not to be Helen, he could no longer, with
self-respect, continue to proffer his love only to see it
slighted and neglected. He was humble enough concerning himself,
but of his love he was very proud. Other men could give her more
in wealth or position, but no one could ever love her as he did.
"He that hath more let him give," he had often quoted to her
defiantly, as though he were challenging the world, and now he
felt he must evolve a make-shift world of his own--a world in
which she was not his only spring of acts; he must begin all over
again and keep his love secret and sacred until she
understood it and wanted it. And if she should never want it he
would at least have saved it from many rebuffs and insults.