certainly no lessening of his affection for Nan. Only he felt absolutely
sure of her, and the mental situation sketched above left him more open to
the lure of downtown, which to any live man was in those days especially
great. Every evening the "fellows" got together, jawed things over, played
pool, had a drink or so, wandered from one place to another, looked with
the vivid interest of the young and able-bodied on the seething, colourful,
vital life of the new community. It was all harmless and mighty pleasant.
Keith argued that he was "establishing connections" and meeting men who
could do his profession good, which was more or less true; but it took him
from home evenings.

Nan, at first, quite innocently played into his hands. She really preferred
to stay at home rather than be bored at the Morrells'. Later, when this
tradition had been established, she began to be disturbed, not by any
suspicion that Milton's interest was straying, but by a feeling of neglect.
She was hurt. And little by little, in spite of herself, a jealousy of the
woman next door began to tinge her solitude. Her nature was too noble and
generous to harbour such a sentiment without a struggle. She blamed herself
for unworthy and wretched jealousy, and yet she could not help herself.
Often, especially at first, Keith in an impulse would throw over his plans,
and ask her to go to the theatre or a concert, of which there were many and
excellent. She generally declined, not because she did not want to go, but
because of that impelling desire, universal in the feminine soul, to be a
little wooed to it, to be compelled by gentle persuasion that should at
once make up for the past and be an earnest for the future. Only Keith took
her refusal at its face value. Nan was lonely and hurt.

Her refusals to respond to his rather spasmodic attempts to be nice to her
were adopted by Keith's subconscious needs for comfort. If she didn't want
to see anything of life, she shouldn't expect him to bury himself. His