She might come again -- who knew ? He felt no fear , nothing but a terrible hunger to see her again . But she did not come that night -- nor the next -- nor the next . Two weeks went by and he had not seen her . Perhaps he would never see her again -- the thought filled him with anguish not to be borne . He knew now that he loved her -- Isabel Temple , dead for eighty years . This was love -- this searing , torturing , intolerably sweet thing -- this possession of body and soul and spirit . The poets had sung but weakly of it . He could tell them better if he could find words . Could other men have loved at all -- could any man love those blowzy , common girls of earth ? It seemed impossible -- absurd . There was only one thing that could be loved -- that white spirit . No wonder his uncle had died . He , Roger Temple , would soon die too . That would be well . Only the dead could woo Isabel . Meanwhile he revelled in his torment and his happiness -- so madly commingled that he never knew whether he was in heaven or hell . It was beautiful -- and dreadful -- and wonderful -- and exquisite -- oh , so exquisite . Mortal love could never be so exquisite . He had never lived before -- now he lived in every fibre of his being .
He was glad Aunt Catherine did not worry him XXXXX questions .
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