on himself. He condemned himself at that moment, was angry with himself,
cursed himself. And he cursed himself, not because he was morbid, but
because he was healthy-minded, and believed that his evil inclinations
had been aroused by his knowledge of Mrs. Chepstow's past. And that fact
was a beast, was something to be stamped on. He would never allow
himself comfortably to be that sort of man. Yet he was, it seemed,
enough that sort of man to make friendship with Mrs. Chepstow difficult,
perhaps impossible. If love had led him to such an inclination, he
would, being no prude, have understood it as a perfectly natural and
perfectly healthy thing. But he did not love Mrs. Chepstow. He would
never love, really love, again. For years he had said that to himself,
and had believed it. He said it again now. And even if he could renew
that strange power, to love, he could not love a woman who was not pure.
He felt certain of that. He thought of the dead girl and of Mrs.
Chepstow. But to-night he could not recall the dead girl's figure,
face, look, exactly. Mrs. Chepstow's he could, of course, recall. He
had seen her that very day. And the girl he had loved had been dead for
many years. She lived in his memory now rather as a symbol of purity and
beauty than as a human being.

Mrs. Chepstow, of course, would never find a man sincerely to love her
now.

And yet why not! Suddenly Nigel checked himself, as he generally did
when he found himself swiftly subscribing to the general opinion of the
great mass of men. Why not? The shoulder to the wheel; it was nearly
always the shoulder of love--love of an idea, love of a woman, love of
humanity, love of work, love of God. All the men he knew, or very nearly
all, would laugh at the idea of Mrs. Chepstow being sincerely loved. But
the fact that they would laugh could have no effect on a manly heart or