Maggie had begun
to stand for him as a kind of embodiment of a view of life which was
sane, wholesome, and curiously attractive; there was a largeness about
her, a strength, a sense of fresh air that was delightful. It was that
kind of thing, he thought, that had attracted him to her during this
past summer. The image of Amy, on the other hand, more than ever now
since those recent associations, stood for something quite
contrary--certainly for attractiveness, but of a feverish and vivid
kind, extraordinarily unlike the other. To express it in terms of
time, he thought of Maggie in the morning, and of Amy in the evening,
particularly after dinner. Maggie was cool and sunny; Amy suited
better the evening fever and artificial light.
And now Maggie had to be faced.
First he reflected that he had not breathed a hint, either to her or
his mother, as to what had passed. They both would believe that he had
dropped all this. There would then be no arguing, that at least was a
comfort. But there was a curious sense of isolation and division
between him and the girl.
Yet, after all, he asked himself indignantly, what affair was it of
hers? She was not his confessor; she was just a convent-bred girl who
couldn't understand.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132