At any rate he argued from the hypothesis that
he was not in love with her. This he refused to admit now in the light
of day, though he had admitted it fully in the watches of the night. It
would not do to admit it. But he was forced to acknowledge that she had
crept into his life and possessed it so completely that then and for
months afterwards, except in deep sleep or in hours of severe mental
strain, not a single half hour would pass without bringing its thought
of Beatrice. Everything that was beautiful, or grand, or elevating,
reminded him of her--and what higher compliment could a mistress have?
If he listened to glorious music, the voice of Beatrice spoke to him
through the notes; if he watched the clouds rolling in heavy pomp across
a broken sky he thought of Beatrice; if some chance poem or novel moved
him, why Beatrice was in his mind to share the pleasure. All of which
was very interesting, and in some ways delightful, but under our current
system not otherwise than inconvenient to a married man.
And now Beatrice was gone, and he must come back to his daily toil,
sweetened by Honoria's bitter complaints of their poverty, and see her
no more.
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