Women there had been--several women, a succession of idealizations which
had dispersed in the strong light of his common sense. He had never
disturbed himself about morals in what he regarded as the limited sense. He
always insisted that he was free; and he was careful only of his personal
pride and of taking no advantage of another. What he had said to Alice
about marriage was true--as to his intentions, at least. A poor woman, he
felt, he could not marry; a rich woman, he felt, he would not marry. And he
cared nothing about marriage because he was never lonely, never leaned or
wished to lean upon another, abhorred the idea of any one leaning upon him;
because he regarded freedom as the very corner-stone of his scheme of life.

The nearest he had come to companionship was with Alice. With the other
women whom he had known in various degrees from warmth to white-heat, there
had been interruptions, no such constant freedom of access, no such
intermingling of daily life. Her he had seen at all hours and in all
circumstances. She never disturbed him but was ready to talk when he wished
to listen, listened eagerly when he talked, and was silent and beautiful
and restful to look at when he wished to indulge in the dissipation of
mental laziness.

As she loved him, she showed him only the best that there was in her and
showed it in the most attractive of all lights.

While he was still wavering or fancying that he was wavering, the Managing
Editor sent him to "do" a great strike-riot in the coal regions of
Pennsylvania. He was there for three weeks, active day and night,
interested in the new phases of life--the mines and the miners, the display
of fierce passions, the excitement, the peril.