He believed in
his heart of hearts that only the Northern Island could boast the
perfect woman--because he had found her there.
Should he talk of loss--he who had gained so unspeakably by an
ideal love through the hot years of his youth, who to the end of his
life would be made better by it? That were the basest ingratitude.
Irene owed him nothing, yet had enriched him beyond calculation. He
did not love her less; she was the same power in his life. This
sinking of the heart, this menace of gloom and rebellion, was
treachery to his better self. He fought manfully against it.
Circumstances were unfavourable to such a struggle. Work, absorption
in the day's duty, well and good; but when work and duty led one
into the City of London! At first, he had found excitement in the
starting of his business; so much had to be done, so many points to
be debated and decided, so many people to be seen and conversed
with, contended with; it was all an exhilarating effort of mind and
body. He felt the joy of combat; sped to the City like any other
man, intent on holding his own amid the furious welter, seeing a
delight in the computation of his chances; at once a fighter and a
gambler, like those with whom he rubbed shoulders in the roaring
ways. He overtaxed his energy, and in any case there must have come
reaction. It came with violence soon after that day at Malvern.
The weather was hot; one should have been far away from these huge
rampart-streets, these stifling burrows of commerce.
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