was nonsense; it would only make him sick. He sat down, and determinedly
set himself to thinking.

The effort finally brought fruit--and of a kind which gave him a very
unhappy quarter of an hour. The lover part of him was uppermost now,
insistently exposing all its raw surfaces to the stings and scalds of
jealousy. Up to this moment, his brain had always evaded the direct
question of how he and the priest relatively stood in Celia's
estimation. It forced itself remorselessly upon him now; and his
thoughts, so far from shirking the subject, seemed to rise up to meet
it. It was extremely unpleasant, all this.

But then a calmer view asserted itself. Why go out of his way to
invent anguish for himself? The relations between Celia and the priest,
whatever they might be, were certainly of old standing. They had begun
before his time. His own romance was a more recent affair, and must take
its place, of course, subject to existing conditions.

It was all right for him to come to New York, and satisfy his legitimate
curiosity as to the exact character and scope of these conditions. But
it was foolish to pretend to be amazed or dismayed at the discovery of
their existence. They were a part of the situation which he, with his
eyes wide open, had accepted. It was his function to triumph over them,
to supplant them, to rear the edifice of his own victorious passion upon
their ruins. It was to this that Celia's kiss had invited him. It was
for this that he had come to New York. To let his purpose be hampered or
thwarted now by childish doubts and jealousies would be ridiculous.

He rose, and holding himself very erect, walked with measured
deliberation across the corridor and up the broad staircase. There was