To him , the homely , crippled , poverty-stricken Roger Temple whom they all would have scorned , there was always a certain subtle something wanting , and the lack of it kept him heartwhole . He knew that this probably saved him from much suffering , but for all that he regretted it . He wanted to love , even vainly ; he wanted to experience this passion of which the poets sang so much . Without it he felt he lacked the key to a world of wonder . He even tried to fall in love ; he went to church for several Sundays and sat where he could see beautiful Elsa Carey . She was lovely -- it gave him pleasure to look at her ; the gold of her hair was so bright and living ; the pink of her cheek so pure , the curve of her neck so flawless , the lashes of her eyes so dark and silken . But he looked at her as at a picture . When he tried to think and dream of her , it bored him . Besides , he knew she had a rather nasal voice . He used to laugh sarcastically to himself over Elsa 's feelings if she had known how desperately he was trying to fall in love with her and failing -- Elsa the queen of hearts , who believed she had only to look to reign . He gave up trying at last , but he still longed to love . He knew he would never marry ; he could not marry plainness , and beauty would have longed to love . He knew he would never marry ; he could not marry plainness , and beauty would have none of him ; but he did not want to miss everything and he had moments when he was very bitter and rebellious because he felt he must miss it forever . He went straight to Isabel Temple 's grave in the remote shore field of his farm . Isabel Temple had lived and died eighty years ago . She had been very lovely , very wilful , very fond of playing with the hearts of men . She had married William Temple , the brother of his great-grandfather , and as she stood in her white dress beside her bridegroom , at the conclusion of the wedding ceremony , a jilted lover , crazed by despair , had entered the house and shot her dead . She had been buried in the shore field , where a square space had been dyked off in the centre for a burial lot because the church was then so far away . With the passage of years the lot had grown up so thickly with fir and birch and wild cherry that it looked like a compact grove . A winding path led through it to its heart where Isabel Temple 's grave was , thickly overgrown with long , silken , pale green grass .
Roger hurried along the path and sat down on the big grey boulder by the grave , looking about him with a long breath XXXXX delight .
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