"
The image of Olga Hannaford was distinct before his mind's eye, but
did not touch his emotions. He thought with little interest of her
embarking on an artist's career, and had small belief in her chances
of success. Under the spell of Irene, he felt coldly critical
towards all other women; every image of feminine charm paled and
grew remote when hers was actually before him, and it would have
cost a great effort of mind to assure himself that he had not felt
precisely thus ever since the days at Ewell. The truth was, of
course, that though imagination could always restore Irene's
supremacy, and constantly did so, though his intellectual being
never failed from allegiance to her, his blood had been at the mercy
of any face sufficiently alluring. So it would be again, little as
he could now believe it.
Before he departed, he had his wish of a few minutes' talk with her.
The words exchanged were insignificant. Piers had nothing ready to
his tongue but commonplace, and Miss Derwent answered as became her.
As he left the room he suffered a flush of anger, the natural revolt
of every being who lives by emotion against the restraints of polite
intercourse. At such moments one _feels_ the bonds wrought for
themselves by civilised mankind; commonly accepted without
consciousness of voluntary or involuntary restraint. In revolt, he
broke through these trammels of self-subduing nature, saw himself
free man before her free woman, in some sphere of the unembarrassed
impulse, and uttered what was in him, pleaded with all his life,
conquered by vital energy.
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