taste of life, the adventure of it, the change of it, the huge possibilities of it beckon me—I can't leave it."
"The change!" she cried with dilating nostrils while her eyes darkened, "the change!"
"You are determined to misunderstand me," I cried, "is not every day a change?"
"I am weary", she cried, "and beaten: I can only beg you not to forget your promise to come—ah!" and she caught and kissed me on the mouth: "I shall die with your name on my lips", she said, and turned to bury her face in the sofa cushion. I went: what else was there to do?
I saw them off at the station: Lorna had made me promise to write often, and swore she would write every day and she did send me short notes daily for a fortnight: then came gaps ever lengthening: "Denver society was pleasant and a Mr. Wilson, a student, was assiduous: he comes every day", she wrote. Excuses finally, little hasty notes, and in two months her letters were formal, cold; in three months they had ceased altogether.
The break did not surprise me: I had taught her that youth was the first requisite in a lover for a woman of her type: she had doubtless put my precepts into practice: Mr. Wilson was probably as near the ideal as I was and very much nearer to hand.
The passions of the senses demand propinquity and satisfaction and nothing is more forgetful than pleasures of the flesh. If Mrs. Mayhew had given me little, I had given her even less of my better self.
