Dumont.

Murray was now working feverishly. As he worked he found himself
feeling differently toward the whole affair. He actually came to
enjoy it with all its risks and uncertainty, to enjoy gathering the
data which, he should have said, ought really to be destroyed. Often
he caught himself wishing that everything had come out all right in
the end and that Constance really was his private secretary.

Every moment with her seemed now to pass so quickly that he would
willingly have smashed all the clocks and destroyed all the
calendars. Association with other women had been tame beside his new
friendship with her. She had suffered, felt, lived. She fascinated
him, as often over the books they would stop to talk, talk of things
the most irrelevant, yet to him the most interesting, until she
would bring him back inevitably to the point of their work and start
him again with a new power and incentive toward the purpose she had
in mind.

To Constance he seemed to fill a blank spot in her empty life. If
she had been bitter toward the world for what had happened to her,
the pleasure of helping another to beat that harsh world seemed an
unspeakably sweet compensation.

At last even Constance herself began to realize it. It was not,
after all, merely the bitterness toward society, that lured her on.
She was not a woman carved out of a block of stone. There was a
sweetness about this association that carried her along as if in a
dream. She was actually falling in love with him.