He strove with all the force of his optimistic will to throw off the
depression which deepened with each moment, assuring himself that he was
tired, that all morning he had played a part, every faculty on the
alert; and that this growing dissatisfaction and unrest were only the
evidence of a natural reaction.
He attempted to buttress his hope with mental argument, logical, even
final, but singularly unconvincing where Pearl was concerned, as
anything logical and final must ever be. He tried to recall in detail
stories he had heard of her avarice and her coquetries; he thought of
her jewels, her name, her wiles. Who was she to object to past
peccadillos on his part? Then, uncomforted, he sought to reassure
himself with the remembrance of her love for him, ardent and beautiful
as the sun on the desert, but her image rose on the dark of his mind
like a flame, veering and capricious, or as the wind, lingering,
caressing, yet ever fleeing.
He was tormented by the remembrance also of strange phases of her which
he divined but could not analyze. Again, he would in fancy look deep
into her dark eyes, demanding that his imagination revive for him those
moments when his heart had thrilled to the liquid languor of her gaze,
and instead he saw only the world-weariness of that sphynx glance which
seemed to brood on uncounted centuries, and far back in her eyes,
illusive and brief as the faint, half seen shadow on a mirror, he
discerned mockery and disdain.
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