But there was another which he thought she did not see. He was
deceived as to the depth of her insight because he did not watch her
closely. He had no suspicion how many, many times, in their moments of
demonstrativeness, she listened for those words which never came, listened
and turned away to hide from him the disappointment in her eyes.
He did not love her--and she knew it. She did not inspire ambition in
him--and she knew it. She simply kept him comfortable and contented. She
simply prevented his amatory instincts from gathering strength vigorously
to renew that search which men and women keep up incessantly until they
find what they seek. She knew this also but never permitted herself to see
it clearly.
He was pleased with her but not proud of her. He was not exactly ashamed of
his relation with her but--well, he never relaxed his precautions for
keeping it conventionally concealed. He still had a room at his club and
occupied it occasionally. He laughed at himself, despised himself in
a--gentle, soothing way. But he excused himself to himself with earnestness
despite his sarcasms at his own expense. And for the most of the time he
was content--so well, so comfortably content that if his mind had not been
so nervously active he would have taken on the form and look of settled
middle-life.
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