But somehow, in a subtle way, he was
more feverishly wretched than when Margot was near, and while planning
to hurry on the marriage. He had been buoyed up with a rather youthful
sense of defiance of the world, a hot desire to "get everything over."
The flatness of the reaction which he felt on finding himself free, at
least of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguely
understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was an
aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where to go, now
that old friends and old haunts had lost much of their attraction.
Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and especially
since the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he disliked
meeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good advice, or let
him see that they were dying to do so.
If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make you
happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love for
him, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen thought--to throw
her over now. It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and it
would look to himself the same--which would be more painful in the end.
So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to hear none. Fortunately
he was not in love with any other woman. But then, if he had loved
somebody else, he would not have made the foolish mistake of saying
those unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.
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