He was the lover, merely; life was but the light and shadow through which
moved the woman whom he loved. He came back to himself, and tried to think
it out, but could not. Finally, with a weary impatience, he declined to
think at all. He was to dine at the Governor's. Evelyn would be there.

Only momentarily, in those days of early summer, had he wavered in his
determination to make this lady his wife. Pride was at the root of his
being,--pride and a deep self-will; though because they were so sunken,
and because poisonous roots can flower most deceivingly, he neither called
himself nor was called of others a proud and willful man. He wished Evelyn
for his wife; nay, more, though on May Day he had shown her that he loved
her not, though in June he had offered her a love that was only admiring
affection, yet in the past month at Westover he had come almost to believe
that he loved her truly. That she was worthy of true love he knew very
well. With all his strength of will, he had elected to forget the summer
that lay behind him at Fair View, and to live in the summer that was with
him at Westover. His success had been gratifying; in the flush of it, he
persuaded himself that a chamber of the heart had been locked forever, and
the key thrown away. And lo now! a touch, the sudden sight of a name, and
the door had flown wide; nay, the very walls were rived away! It was not a
glance over the shoulder; it was full presence in the room so lately
sealed.

He knew that Evelyn loved him. It was understood of all their acquaintance
that he was her suitor; months ago he had formally craved her father's
permission to pay his addresses. There were times in those weeks at
Westover when she had come nigh to yielding, to believing that he loved
her; he was certain that with time he would have his way.... But the room,
the closed room, in which now he sat!