"
That had perhaps actually been his thought, the thought of a mind
unimaginative to-day, because deadened by the excitement of action.
But if it was his thought he hastened to deny it.
"You know I don't think of you in that way," he said.
"You will now. You do."
That was the scourge that had lashed her all through this weary day of
miserable reaction; that now stung her to a passion that was like the
passion of purity. As she made this statement there was a question in
her eyes, but it was a question of despair, that scarcely even asked for
the negative which Julian hastened to give. He was both perplexed and
troubled by the unexpected violence of her emotion, and blamed himself
as the cause. But, though he blamed himself, his regret for what was
irrevocable had none of the poignancy of Cuckoo's. For a long time he
had gloried in living in a cloister with Valentine. Now he had left the
cloister, he did not look back to it with the curious pathos which so
often gathers like moss upon even a dull and vacant past. He did not,
for the moment, look back at all. Action had lifted scales from his eyes,
had stirred the youth in him, had stung him as if with bright fire, and
given him, at a breath, a thousand thoughts, visions, curiosities.
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