She said: “I’d have to have some surer guide than mysterious inner voices.”
“That’s easy,” said Wilfred quickly. “If your passion is for a worthy object you feel proud; if it is not worthy, you suffer like the devil.”
“I wasn’t talking about my passion,” said Elaine laughing; but her long-lashed eyes were dreadfully haunted.
“Oh, sure!” said Wilfred, grinning like a man on the rack. “That’s just the clumsy English language!” . . . Why can’t we speak out! he cried to himself; I love her so!
“Well, having got thus far,” said Elaine with a sprightly air that was almost more than he could bear; “having recognized that one is the victim of an infatuation, how is one to set about curing oneself?”
Wilfred shook his head helplessly.
“What! has the doctor no remedy to offer?”
“Leave it to time,” he murmured.
“That might work in the case of an elastic nature,” said Elaine. “One of those natures that snaps easily in and out of entanglements. But there’s another kind; stubborn.”
Wilfred could not speak. Something inside him was pressing up, and he could not force it back. It was stopping his throat; he struggled for breath. . . .