"Oh, no. I like him. He is a good man--thoroughly good."

This pleased Norman immensely. It may be fine to be good, but to be
called good--that is somehow a different matter. It removes a man at
once from the jealousy-provoking class. "Good exactly describes him,"
said Norman. "He wouldn't harm a fly. In love he'd be ridiculous."

"Not with a woman of his own age and kind," protested she. "But I'm
neglecting my work."

And she returned to it with a resolute manner that made him ashamed to
interrupt again--especially after the unconscious savage rebukes she had
administered. He sat there fighting against the impulse to watch
her--denouncing himself--appealing to pride, to shame, to prudence--to
his love for Josephine--to the sense of decency that restrains a hunter
from aiming at a harmless tame song bird. But all in vain. He
concentrated upon her at last, stared miserably at her, filled with
longing and dread and shame--and longing, and yet more longing.

When she finished and stood at the other side of the desk, waiting for
him to pass upon her work, she must have thought he was in a profound
abstraction. He did not speak, made a slight motion with his hand to
indicate that she was to go. Shut in alone, he buried his face in his
arms. "What madness!" he groaned. "If I loved her, there'd be some
excuse for me. But I don't. I couldn't. Yet I seem ready to ruin
everything, merely to gratify a selfish whim--an insane whim."

On top of the papers she had left he saw a separate slip. He drew it
toward him, spread it out before him. Her address. An unknown street in
Jersey City!