real. It is difficult for a young, strong man in the pride of his life
never to have any dealing either with love or with its spectre. But
Isaacson was right. Nigel's life had been much purer than are most men's
lives. Often he had fought against himself, and his own natural
inclination, because of his great respect for love. Not always had he
conquered. But the fights had strengthened the muscles of his will, and
each fall had shown him more clearly the sadness, almost the horror,
imprinted on the haggard features of the spectre of the real.

Mrs. Chepstow for years had been looking upon, had been living with,
that spectre, if what was said of her was true.

And Nigel did not deceive himself on this point. He did not
sentimentally exalt a courtesan into an angel, as boys so often do. Mrs.
Chepstow had certainly lived very wrongly, in a way to excite disgust,
perhaps, as well as pity. Yet within her were delicacy, simplicity, the
pride of breeding, even a curious reserve. She had still a love of fine
things. She cared for things ethereal. He thought of his first visit to
her, the open piano, "Proficiscere, anima Christiana," "The Scarlet
Letter," and her quotation. What had she been thinking while she played
Elgar's curiously unearthly music, while she read Hawthorne's pitiful
book? She had been using art, no doubt, as so many use it, as a means of
escape from life. And her escape had been not into filth or violence,
not into the salons of wit, or into the salons where secrets are
unveiled, but into the airy spaces with the angel, into the forest with
Hester and little Pearl.

Why could they not continue friends?

His body spoke in answer, and he laid the blame for the answer entirely