He muttered to himself: "It's awful, what I've done--awful!"
And the sound of Schumann's music throbbed and mingled with his fevered
thoughts, and he saw again Stella's cool, white, fair-haired figure
and bending neck, the queer, angelic radiance about her. 'I must have
been--I must be-mad!' he thought. 'What came into me? Poor little
Megan!' "God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes! I want to be with you--only
to be with you!" And burying his face in his pillow, he smothered down a
fit of sobbing. Not to go back was awful! To go back--more awful still!
Emotion, when you are young, and give real vent to it, loses its
power of torture. And he fell asleep, thinking: 'What was it--a few
kisses--all forgotten in a month!'
Next morning he got his cheque cashed, but avoided the shop of the
dove-grey dress like the plague; and, instead, bought himself some
necessaries. He spent the whole day in a queer mood, cherishing a kind
of sullenness against himself. Instead of the hankering of the last two
days, he felt nothing but a blank--all passionate longing gone, as if
quenched in that outburst of tears. After tea Stella put a book down
beside him, and said shyly:
"Have you read that, Frank?"
It was Farrar's "Life of Christ.
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