ware--at least, he told himself that he was aware--that
extraordinary efforts must be made in love affairs. I don't know how he
reconciled that startling theory with his other tenets, but he did. The
chance suggestions of his momentary moods he regarded as convictions,
and adopted them one day and disowned them the next with much _naif_
dignity, and offended astonishment, if the Bishop or some other old
friend actually hinted at a discrepancy between diametrically opposed
but earnestly expounded views. He imagined that he was now grappling
with the difficulties inherent to love in their severest form. It was of
estrangements like these that poets sang. He opened his Browning and
found he was on the right road, passing the proper milestones at the
correct moment. He was sustained in his idleness this morning by the
comfortable realisation that he was falling desperately in love. He
shook his head at himself and smiled. He was not ill pleased with
himself. He would return to a perfectly regulated life later on. In the
meanwhile he would give a free rein to these ecstatic moods, these wild
emotions. When he had given a free rein to them they ambled round a
little paddock, and brought him back to his own front door. It was
delicious. He had thoughts of chronicling the expedition in verse.

I fear we cannot escape the conclusion that Wentworth was on the verge
of being a prig. But he was held back as it were by the coat-tails from
the abyss by a certain _naivete_ and uprightness of character. The
Bishop once said of him that he was so impressed with the fact that
dolls were stuffed with sawdust that it was impossible not to be fond of
him.

Wentworth in spite of his sweeping emotions was still unconsciously
meditating a possible retreat as regards Fay, was still glancing
furtively over his shoulder. Strange how that involuntary,
self-protective attitude on a man's part is never lost on a woman,
however dense she may otherwise be, almost always ends by ruining him
with her. Others besides Lot's wife have become petrified by looking
back.

Fay, he reflected, must make it perfectly clear to him that if he did
propose he would be accepted--she in short must commit herself--and
then--after all a bachelor's life had great charm. But still--at any
rate he might come back from Lostford this afternoon by way of Pilgrim
Road. That would tie him to nothing. She often walked there. It would be
an entirely chance meeting. Wentworth ha