At all events it had left him with no reserves even
in his pride to fight his failure and his loss.
In that shrieking hell of August twenty-sixth, or again when lying
abandoned and gassed in a way-side hut during that ominous retreat of the
Fifth Army, when he had a sudden close vision of himself, trousers tucked
into a pair of Gwynne's hunting boots, swearing now and again as he stepped
on a hot brick; and heard his groping ego whisper the question through his
prostrate mind, he was tempted to answer aloud, to shout "No" above the
shrieking of shells and the groans of men fallen about him.
He might no longer love Alexina Groome after twelve or even eight years of
complete severance; and, indeed, save in flashing moments like these he had
seldom thought of her after the first two or three years; but at least she
had taken the edge from his power to suffer.
He had lost his mother soon after his return with the body of her youngest
child, his father had died three years later, and he had accepted these
griefs with the composure of maturity. Although he had had some agreeable
adventures (not that he had had much time for either women or society)
he had taken devilish good care not to get in too deep--even if he still
possessed the power to love at all, which he doubted.
He remembered also, what he had almost forgotten, that during that walk it
had come to him with the sharpness of surprise that the image of the girl
who clung to his mind with the tentacles of a devil-fish, was as he had
seen her standing under the oak tree while unaware of his presence: older,
a more dignified and thoughtful figure, a woman old enough to be his mate
in something more than youthful passion, the ideal woman of vague sweet
dreams; not as the thoughtless little coquette who had tempted him to ruin
his chances by acting like a cave brute.
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