| Julia, by her ruthless act, had despoiled him of ten years of his life. | But Jennie had now seen him as Julia had seen him more than twenty years ago. |
| That act of hers constituted the gap that, try as he would, he could not account for. | But should another gap now come his heart would understand. |
| In some dark and hidden way Julia had taken upon herself his burden of sin. | He was now beautiful, grave, innocent and unafraid. |
| Julia, darkly machinating, was counting on waylaying him again, and yet again. | But Jennie, as spotless as he, knew nothing of machination. |
| "He shall know what love is; why should he get nothing out of his life?" Julia had passionately cried. | If his question to me meant anything, a wonder had happened to him not two hours ago. |
| On his former pilgrimage he had not known Love. | But was Love the wonder now? |
| If so, it was Julia's gift when she had restored his innocence to him. | And it was a gift to Jennie. |
But the position was inconceivable, not to be thought of. Experience such as never man had possessed lurked behind that simulacrum of beauty by my side. Young as he was, he was old enough to have been Jennie's father. He was, he still remained, the man who had written The Hands of Esau and An Ape in Hell, the man for whom I had hunted in questionable London haunts, who had known to the full the sin and shame of his accumulated years. I knew, Julia knew, what contact with his ruinous uniqueness meant. How was it possible to permit such an error in nature as to allow him to fall in love with Jennie Aird?
Yet if he had already done so, what was there to do?
His voice sounded again softly by my side.
"You haven't told me who that was with you in the garden," he said.
"Let's finish with the other things first," I answered.
"Oh, I'm tired of talking about myself, sir."
"That's one of them. Why do you sometimes call me 'sir' and sometimes 'George'?"
He gave a start. "Have I been doing that?"