THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
sum of his existence. He had been telling himself for days that he hadn't loved Clare at all; when faced honestly he had loved her, only, as Bob said, he had got over it. There you were, the crux of it. What did getting over it signify? That he was not capable of sustained love? Supposing it was just the novelty of the situation in which he found himself? Supposing he told Doris he loved her, and they married, and afterward. . . .
And yet there was a difference between this new love and the old. There had been the pride of youth in the first affair; in this one only a deep and tender longing to shield and protect. It could not be the grand passion; his blood did not bound at the thought of Doris as it had at the thought of Clare. All he wanted was to hold Doris close in his arms. He did not have a perception of that former desire to go forth into the world and conquer something, to shout his joy at everybody.
Armitage was intensely honest. He wanted this to be right; he wanted to be absolutely positive that this love was the real love, something that would sweep on
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