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Only he had set her on high, where even
the humblest woman longs to be set by some one. Only he had thought
her better, braver, more worshipful, more loveable, than any other
woman. Such love, without bringing conceit to the creature loved,
gives power, creates much of what it believes in. The lack of any such
love seems to withdraw the little power that there is.
Hermione, feeling in this humiliation of the imagination that she was
less than nothing, clung desperately to the memory of him who had
thought her much. The dividing years were gone. With a strange, a
beautiful and terrible freshness, the days of her love came back. She
saw Maurice's eyes looking at her with that simple, almost reverent
admiration which she had smiled at and adored.
And she gripped her memory. She clung to it feverishly as she had
never clung to it before. She told herself that she would live in it
as in a house of shelter. For there was the desolate wind outside.
And she thought much of Ruffo, and with a strange desire--to be with
him, to search for the look she loved in him.


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