Yes, that
must be it. It was a comforting explanation. It accounted for his
feeling at a loose end whenever he was away from Elizabeth for as
much as half an hour. It accounted for the fact that they understood
each other so well. It accounted for everything so satisfactorily
that he was able to get to sleep that night after all.
But next morning--for his conscience was one of those persistent
consciences--he began to have doubts again. Nothing clings like a
suspicion in the mind of a conscientious young man that he has
been allowing his heart to stray from its proper anchorage.
Could it be that he was behaving badly toward Claire? The thought
was unpleasant, but he could not get rid of it. He extracted
Claire's photograph from his suit-case and gazed solemnly upon it.
At first he was shocked to find that it only succeeded in
convincing him that Elizabeth was quite the most attractive girl
he ever had met. The photographer had given Claire rather a severe
look. He had told her to moisten the lips with the tip of the
tongue and assume a pleasant smile, with the result that she
seemed to glare. She had a rather markedly aggressive look,
queenly perhaps, but not very comfortable.
But there is no species of self-hypnotism equal to that of a man
who gazes persistently at a photograph with the preconceived idea
that he is in love with the original of it.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136