examination, and the conclusion to which he came was that, as an
aspirant to the regard, of a girl like Betty, he did not score a single
point. No wonder she had ignored the appointment.

A cold sweat broke out on him. This was the snub! She had not
administered it in the Casino simply in order that, by being delayed,
its force might be the more overwhelming.

He looked at his watch again, and the world grew black. It was twelve
minutes after ten.

John, in his time, had thought and read a good deal about love. Ever
since he had grown up, he had wanted to fall in love. He had imagined
love as a perpetual exhilaration, something that flooded life with a
golden glow as if by the pressing of a button or the pulling of a
switch, and automatically removed from it everything mean and hard and
uncomfortable; a something that made a man feel grand and god-like,
looking down (benevolently, of course) on his fellow men as from some
lofty mountain.

That it should make him feel a worm-like humility had not entered his
calculations. He was beginning to see something of the possibilities of
love. His tentative excursions into the unknown emotion, while at
college, had never really deceived him; even at the time a sort of
second self had looked on and sneered at the poor imitation.

This was different. This had nothing to do with moonlight and soft
music. It was raw and hard. It hurt. It was a thing sharp and jagged,
tearing at the roots of his soul.