The quick thought came, that my selfishness was even stronger than his--it
was only a suffering selfishness instead of an enjoying one. But then,
again, my exasperating insight into Alfred's self-complacent soul, his
freedom from all the doubts and fears, the unsatisfied yearnings, the
exquisite tortures of sensitiveness, that had made the web of my life,
seemed to absolve me from all bonds towards him. This man needed no
pity, no love; those fine influences would have been as little felt by
him as the delicate white mist is felt by the rock it caresses. There
was no evil in store for _him_: if he was not to marry Bertha, it would
be because he had found a lot pleasanter to himself.

Mr. Filmore's house lay not more than half a mile beyond our own gates,
and whenever I knew my brother was gone in another direction, I went
there for the chance of finding Bertha at home. Later on in the day I
walked thither. By a rare accident she was alone, and we walked out in
the grounds together, for she seldom went on foot beyond the trimly-swept
gravel-walks. I remember what a beautiful sylph she looked to me as the
low November sun shone on her blond hair, and she tripped along teasing
me with her usual light banter, to which I listened half fondly, half
moodily; it was all the sign Bertha's mysterious inner self ever made to
me. To-day perhaps, the moodiness predominated, for I had not yet shaken
off the access of jealous hate which my brother had raised in me by his
parting patronage. Suddenly I interrupted and startled her by saying,
almost fiercely, "Bertha, how can you love Alfred?"

She looked at me with surprise for a moment, but soon her light smile
came again, and she answered sarcastically, "Why do you suppose I love
him?"