ain, and with a guard upon myself
that had never been relaxed since, I released her hand, with my ring
upon it, as gently as I had taken it, and the quiver of nervous,
painful excitement, that had shot through me as she laid it on my knee
confirmed my resolution. Why teach her also, one moment before she need
know it, the pain of self-repression?

"Is it not pretty," she had said.

"Which, the hand or the ring?"

"Why, the ring, of course," she had said, laughing. "You are too bad,
Victor!"

"I don't know. I think the hand is decidedly the lovelier. But the ring
is useful as a sign that now there is but one man in the world for you,
as, Lucia, there is for me henceforth but one woman."

She had looked up suddenly, and her eyes had met mine with the passion
kept out of them, and only reverence for her there. And even at that
the fugitive scarlet had stained the pale skin, and the eyes had
widened and darkened upon me, asking, Tell me, explain what this
mysterious feeling is that seems stirring faintly in me? And I had
looked back at her in silence, with a word unuttered, but still perhaps
divined by her, on my lips.

Later!

And now things had come to a crisis. I felt as if I could not stand any
longer, clear-headed and hard-working as I had been, against this
repeated raising, then deferring, then breaking down of hope.

Constantly I had given rein to my thoughts and wishes; many times I had
said, "This book will certainly be accepted, and then a month or a few
weeks and she is my own."

But the book had not been taken, the weeks passed by and Lucia was as
far from me as ever. And it could not continue. The perpetual
excitation and reaction was slowly injuring and confusing the brain
like a noxious drug administered to procure lunacy. And the temptation
swept over me now to let go my hold on work, on this bitter effort to
succeed, on this vain, useless striving for recognition, and sink into
some humble position which would supply the necessities for a quiet
obscure existence--shared with this woman. The weeks, months, years,
passed now, wasted, in a dull torture, in a low fever, filled with
long, dragging hopes, expectations, possibilities, and no realities.
Better sweep all these away and settle into a level, solid existence,
contented with the simple natural pleasures that life offers without
striving for. Contented! I laughed as the word drifted across my brain.
That was just what I felt I could not be i