The day, drawing to its close without his seeing her, had seemed colourless and commonplace; but the sound of her gay voice over the wire had changed that—had made the day complete.
"I believe I am in love," he said aloud. He rose and paced the room in the dusk, questioning, considering his own uncertainty.
For the "novelty"—as Stephanie called it—of last night's fever had not been a novelty to her alone. Never before had he been so deeply moved, so swept off his feet, so regardless of a self-control habitual to him.
Perhaps anger and jealousy had started it. But these ignoble emotions could not seem to account for the happiness that hearing her voice had just given him.
Even the voice of a beloved sister doesn't stir a young man to such earnest and profound reflection as that in which he was now immersed, indifferent even to the dinner hour, which had long been over.
"I believe," he said aloud to himself, "that I'm falling very seriously in love with Steve.... And if I am, it's a rather desperate outlook.... She seems to be in love with Grismer—damn him! ... I don't know how to face such a thing.... She's married him and she doesn't live with him.... She admits frankly that he fascinates her.... There are women who never love.... I seem to want her, anyway.... I think I do.... It's a mess! ... Why in God's name did she do such a thing if she wasn't in love with him—or if she didn't expect to be? Is she in love with him? She isn't with me.... I'm certainly drifting into love with Steve.... Can I stop myself? ... I ought to be able to.... Hadn't I better?"
He stood still, thinking, the street lamps' rays outside illuminating his room with a dull radiance.
Presently he switched on the light, seated himself at the desk, and wrote:
STEVE, DEAR:
I am falling in love with you very seriously and very deeply. I don't know what to do about it.