When he came to them next, toward the end of May, it seemed for a moment, as he flung himself into a chair and stared moodily at the empty fireplace, that his old self had returned. Thin and shabby, with dark rings under his eyes, he looked like the boy Delafield had warmed and fed that cold March night. But his words undeceived them.
"I shall shoot myself if this doesn't stop," he said bitterly. Anne started.
"Here, here, West, none of that," the older man corrected, sharply. "That's no thing to say—what is the matter?"
"It's Pippa," he returned, simply. "She won't marry me. I'll kill myself if she don't. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think. It cuts into me night and day. You don't know how it kills me—you don't know!"
He writhed like a child in physical pain. His face was distorted: he made no more effort to conceal his misery than his delight of weeks ago. Delafield showed a little of his disgust.
"Come, come, West," he said, "control yourself. This is no killing matter. Better men than you have been thrown over before this. If she won't have you, take it like a man, and get to work. It's time your book was under way."
West stared dully at him.
"Book? book?" he repeated. "Oh, damn the book! I'd throw it away this minute to feel her arms around me! When I think of how we used to sit in Uncle Joseph's hammock—Oh, I can't endure it, I can't!"
He leaned his head on his arms and rocked to and fro in abject misery.
"She laughs at me—just laughs at me!" he moaned. "I'm ashamed to go near them."