These two shapes of her crossed and were confused and again were parted. His thoughts were first worshipping in heaven, then dwelling with delight on witty, charming things that she had said. For that man, when he came, there would be a most wonderful treasure. Peter now lost his appetite. He could not sleep at night. He would slip out of his room, cross the silent Chelsea streets and watch her dark window. He cultivated Mrs. Rossiter and that massive and complacent lady took it entirely to herself. Indeed, nothing, at this time was more remarkable than the little stir that Peter's devotion caused. It was perhaps that Clare had always had a cloud of young men about her, perhaps that Peter was thought to be having too wonderful a time, just now, to be falling in love as well--that would be piling Life on to Life! ... no one could live under it. Besides Mrs. Rossiter liked him ... he was amazing, you see ... people said.... And the next stage arrived. One May evening, at the Galleons' house, when some one was playing the piano and all the world seemed to be sitting in corners Clare's hand lay suddenly against his. The smooth outer curve of his hand lay against her palm. Their little fingers touched. Sheets of fire rose, inflamed him and fell ... rose again and fell. His hand began to shake, her hand began to shake. He heard, a thousand miles away, some one singing about “the morn.” Their hands parted. She rose and slowly, her white dress and red-gold hair flung against a background that seemed to him black and infinite, crossed the room. That trembling of her hand had maddened him. It suddenly showed him that he--as well as another--might run the race for her. Everything that he had ever done or been--his sentiments, his grossnesses, his restraints and his rebellions--were now concerned in this pursuit. No other human being--Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice--now had any interest for him. His reviews were written he knew not how, the editions of “Reuben Hallard” might run into the gross for all he cared, “The Stone House” lay neglected. And he avoided seeing her. He was afraid to spoil that moment when her hand had shaken at the touch of his, and yet he was tormented by the longing for a new meeting that might provide some new amazement. Perhaps he would hold her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his own! And his heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a splendid terror. Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy. For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the room--the black bulk of Scaw House--the trees, the windows, his father....