was obliged to carve a new attribute to his idol, and laboriously
adapt it.

Schilsky, this insolent boy, was the thorn in his side. It was
Schilsky she was oftenest to be met with; he was her companion at the
most unexpected hours; and, with reluctance, Maurice had to admit to
himself that she had apparently no thought to spare for anyone else.
But it did not make any difference. The curious way in which he felt
towards her, the strange, overwhelming effect her face had on him,
took no account of outside things. Though he might never hope for a
word from her; though he should learn in the coming moment that she
was the other's promised wife; he could not for that reason banish her
from his mind. His feelings were not to be put on and off, like
clothes; he had no power over them. It was simply a case of accepting
things as they were, and this he sought to do.

But his imagination made it hard for him, by throwing up pictures in
which Schilsky was all-prominent. He saw him the confidant of her joys
and troubles; HE knew their origin, knew what key her day was set in.
If her head ached, if she were tired or spiritless, his hand was on
her brow. The smallest events in her life were an open book to him;
and it was these worthless details that Maurice Guest envied him most.
He kept a tight hold on his fancy, but if, as sometimes happened, it
slipped control, and painted further looks of the kind he had seen
exchanged between them, a kiss or an embrace, he was as wretched as if
he had in reality been present.

At other times, this jealous unrest was not the bitterest drop in his
cup; it was bitterer to know that she was squandering her love on one
who was unworthy of it. At first, from a feeling of exaggerated