of those who are set apart by the strange aloofness of genius, whose
souls burn with a wild light, instead of with the comfortable glow of
the hearth fire. He was an ordinary man, loved ordinary things. Neither
was he effeminate or a celibate by instinct, though he had not Reddin's
fury of masculinity. Sex would never have awakened in him but at the
touch of spiritual love. But the touch had come; it had awakened; it
threatened to master him.

Pictures came dimly and yet radiantly before him: Hazel as she would
stand to-night brushing out her hair; this room as it would be when
she had put the light out and only starlight illuminated it; the
flowery scent, the sound of her soft breathing; and then, in a
tempestuous rush, the emotions he would feel as he laid his hand on
the latch--love, triumph, intoxication.

How would she look? What would she say? She could not forbid him. She
would, perhaps, when she awoke to the sweetness of marriage, love him
as passionately as he loved her.

A wild mastery possessed him. He would have what he wanted of life.
What need was there to renounce? And then, like a minor chord, soft and
plaintive, he heard Hazel's voice in bewildered accents murmur:

'What for do you, my soul?' and, 'I'm much obleeged, I'm sure.'

What stood between him and his desire was Hazel's helplessness, her
personality, like a delicate glass that he would break if he stirred.
Creed and convention pushed him on. For Church and State are for
material righteousness, the letter of the law. Spiritual flowerings,
high motives clad in apparent lawlessness--these are hardly in their