sired. He was often haunted by a sense of living
in a mechanical unreality, of moving simply on lines of easy habit.
That was a tame, a flat business, perhaps; but it was what seemed to
happen.

And yet all the time he was more and more haunted by the thought of
Maud. He could not get her out of his head. Over and over again he
lived through the scenes of their meetings. Against the background of
the dusk, that slender figure outlined itself, the lines of her form,
her looks, her smiles; he went again and again through his talks with
her--the walk on the down, the sight of her in the dimly-lighted room;
he could hear the very tones of her low voice, and see the childlike
appeal of her eyes. Worst of all the scene at the Vicarage, the book
held in her slender fingers, her look of bewilderment and
distress--what a pompous ass he had been, how stupid and coarse! He
thought of writing to her; he did write--but the dignified patronage of
his elder-brotherly style sickened him, and he tore up his unfinished
letter. Why could he not simply say that he cared for her, and was
miserable at having hurt her? That was just, he thought, what he must
not do; and yet the idea that she might be making other friends and
acquaintances was a jealous horror to him. He thought of writing to his
aunt about it--he did write regularly to her, but he could not explain
what he had done. Strangest of all, he hardly recognised it as love. He
did not face the idea of a possible life with Maud. It was to be an
amiable and brotherly relation, with a frank confidence and an
outspoken affection. He lost his old tranquil spirits in these
reveries. It was painful to him to find how difficult it was becoming
to talk to the undergraduates; his mild and jocose ironies seemed to
have deserted him. He saw little of Jack; they were elaborately
unaffected with each other, but each felt that there had been a sort of
exposure, and it seemed impossible to regain the old relation.

One morning he had an unpleasant surprise. The Dean of the College, Mr.
Gretton, a tall, rather grimly handsome man, who was immensely
conscientious and laborious, and did his work as well as a virtuous man
could, who was not interested in education, and frankly bored by the
irresponsibility of undergraduates, walked into his rooms one morning
and said, "I hope I don't interrupt you? I want to have a word with you
about Sandys, as he is your cousin. There was a dinner in College last
ni