III
Even the most virtuous of men are conscious of a foolish elation when marked for favour from a woman’s eyes. They do not, as a rule, inquire over-deeply into the value of the glances bestowed upon them. In theory Wynne Rendall was not in the least virtuous. At the club he had frequently remarked that, if lack of virtue were not such a general failing with mankind, he would certainly have been a very devil of a fellow. But this and many similar statements had been mere phrase-making, designed to fit the wall-space of a conversation.
To adopt a cynical attitude toward human frailty was part of his mental routine, and in no way sprung from a natural distaste for sin. Until now sex had left him unmoved and apathetic. He had watched others flounder in the toils of emotion, himself unstirred by curiosity or desire.
With the discovery of Esme’s pout and his own youth arose the opportunity to direct the currents of his stored wisdom upon himself. And, after the fashion of most men since the world began, he did no such thing. He made no attempt to consider whither these thoughts led, or where they drifted, but contentedly let himself gravitate toward the enchanting vortices so lately revealed to him.
And so, on the night on which he had told his wife that he never knew what he proposed to do, he engaged Miss Esme in trivial conversation, and found in the practice a new and amusing diversion.
He was sufficiently entertained to mention some of the passages which had occurred between them at breakfast next day, and thereafter the name Esme—always referred to in the lightest manner—recurred with some frequency in his conversation.
But, if he were pleased with the affair, Miss Esme deplored its tedious progression, and did her noblest to smarten up the course of events. In this, however, she met with ill-success. Wynne was amused, but no more, and made no attempt to encourage a closer intimacy.
There are few women who would have undergone those first months of Wynne’s success as courageously as did Eve. There are few who would have followed so particularly, and with such understanding, the mental processes through which he passed.
To the Esme affair she attached no great importance. She realized that any healthy-bodied youngster would have outgrown the Esme period as he passed from his teens. That Wynne had failed to do so was a natural consequence of the starved, brain-fagging life he had led.
“How old Dame Nature must laugh at us and all our philosophies,” Uncle Clem had said. Very clearly Eve saw the meaning he had sought to convey. Dame Nature must be laughing now—laughing at the natural reaction of nature denied.
A woman will always make allowances for the man she loves, and she forced herself to believe that the period through which Wynne was passing would prove transient. When it had passed the real metamorphosis might come about—and the future promised to each other.
One of the greatest mercies is the survival of the hoping habit. In imagination it still seemed possible Wynne would turn to her with the light of pride and possession, and call her to his side because he needed her there.
So once more she harnessed her soul to wait, though the collar galled as never before.