ould never again know what it was to be satisfied.

There had been a moment when she had risen in his estimation from an
artistic treasure to the dignity of an ideal, and had dominated him,
even when the human animal in him was most furiously roused.

Again, and lastly, the time had come when, by watching her unseen,
instead of spending hours with her every day, by abstracting himself
from her life instead of trying to take part in it, he had lost his
hold upon his ideal for ever, and had been cruelly robbed of what for a
few short days he had held most dear.

Moreover, after the ideal had withered and fallen, there remained
something of which the man felt ashamed, though it was what had seemed
most natural before the higher thought had sprung up full-grown in a
day, and had blossomed, and perished. It was simply this. Margaret was
as much as ever the artistic treasure he coveted, and he was tormented
by the fear lest some one else should get possession of her before him.

He remembered the sleepless nights he had spent while his marble
Aphrodite had lain above ground, before he was ready to carry her off,
the unspeakable anxiety lest she should be found and taken from him,
the terror of losing her which had driven him to make the attempt in
the teeth of weather which his craft had not been fit to face; and he
remembered, too, that the short time while she had lain at the bottom
of the bay had not passed without real dread lest by a miracle another
should find her and steal her.

He felt that same sensation now, as he watched Margaret from a
distance; some one would find her, some one would marry her, some one
would take her away and own her, body and soul, and cheat him of what
had been within his grasp and all but his; and yet he was ashamed,
because he no longer wanted her for his wife, but only as a
possession--as Achilles wanted Briseis and was wroth when she was taken
from him. He felt shame at the thought, because he had already honoured
her in his imagination as his wife, and because to dream of her as
anything as near, yet less in honour, was a sort of dishonour to
himself. Let the subtle analyst make what he can of that; it is the
truth. But possibly the truth about a man very unlike his fellow-men is
not worth analysing, since it cannot lead to any useful generality; and
if analysis is not to be useful, of what use can it possibly be? It
would be more to the purpose to analyse the character of Margaret, f