the garage, where, stopping his engine, he continued to sit
motionless at the wheel. "That ought to be a lesson to you; she's
just naturally warm-hearted and loving. Always was. You're no
more to her than anybody else. Well, there's no fool like an old
fool." Yet, deeper than his admitted thought was the positive
conviction that already something was up between them. If not,
why this excitement and wild happiness? To be sure, nothing had
been said--really. It had all been so light. Rose was just a bit
of a born flirt. But he, having laughed at love all his life,
loved her deeply, desperately. Well, so much the worse for
himself--it couldn't lead anywhere. Yet in spite of all his logic
he knew that something was going to happen. Hang it all--just
what? He was afraid to answer his own question; not because of
any dread of what his wife might do--he was conscious only of a
new, cold, impersonal hatred toward her because she stood between
him and his Rose; nor was it qualms about his ability to win the
girl's heart. Already, despite his inexperience with love
technique, he was, in some mysterious manner, making progress.
The community --his position in it? This was food for thought
certainly, but it was not what worried him. Then why this feeling
of dismay when he wanted to be only glad?

The question was still unanswered when he finally left the
garage. With all his powers of introspection, he had not yet
fathomed the fact that it was a fear of his own, until now
utterly unsuspected, capacity for recklessness. Heretofore, he
had been able to count on the certainty that his best judgment
would govern all his actions. Now, he felt himself clutching,
almost frantically, at the hard sense of proportion that never
before had so much as threatened to desert him. He went about his