He pulled his horse to a standstill on the hill above his house. He often paused there to look down upon it. It gave him a feeling of peace. He loved to come back to its scented splendour after the dry bareness about the tent. These contrasts intensified his sense of life. He wondered what it would be like to have Valerie there filling the house with her music. He could see himself lying in the hammock listening.
He rode down and went in, hushing his dogs. He slept better than he expected and woke to a fine cool late May day. He ate his breakfast outside and settled down in his hammock afterwards to smoke. But he could not keep his thoughts on the thing he had meant to write.
He kept seeing Valerie, not as he had seen her the night before, but as he had seen her the first time in the office, and then again as she lay unconscious in the yard. And he wondered if she were seriously interested in him. He never over-emphasized the importance of sentimental moods. It did not occur to him that because she had put her hand on his head the night before it was an indication that she was in love with him. He knew now she was not the child he had first thought her. She had probably been kissed by many men.
Well, what of it all? He had not followed all his impulses with her. Something had held him back. A tangle of inhibitions, indeed. He could not tell which of them was the stronger, but he thought of Davenport Carr first. He knew well enough what that social autocrat would think of his association with his daughter in any way whatsoever. And he was deeply indebted to Davenport Carr. And he simply must keep away front his daughter.
And if he went on how would it end, anyway? Just as it had always ended. With him love had always destroyed itself. And he felt he could never hold Valerie. She was
