Aylmer had read, heard of these obsessions, but never believed in them. It was folly, madness! He stood up, tossing his head as though to throw it off. He went to fetch some friends, went with them to see pictures, to have tea, and to drive in the Bois, accepting also an invitation to dine with a man--a nice boy--a fellow who had been at Oxford with him, and was at the embassy here, a young attaché. He was quite nice: a little dull, and a little too fond of talking about his chief. Aylmer got home at about half-past six to dress for dinner. Then the torture began again. It was always worse towards evening--an agony of longing, regret, fury, vague jealousy and desire. He stood and looked out of the window again at the crowd, hurrying along now to their pleasures or their happy homes. So many people in the world, like stars in the sky--why want the one star only? Why cry for the moon? He had no photograph of her, but he still thought she was like his mother's miniature, and often looked at it. He wished he wasn't going to dine with that young man tonight. Aylmer was the most genial and sociable of men; he usually disliked being alone; yet just now being with people bored him; it seemed an interruption. He was going through a crisis. Yes; he could not stand anyone this evening. He rang the bell and sent a _petit bleu_ to say he was prevented from dining with his friend. What a relief when he had sent this--now he could think of her alone in peace.... She had never asked him to go away. It was his own idea. He had come away to get over it. Well, he hadn't got over it. He was worse. But it wasn't because he didn't see her; no, he didn't deceive himself. The more he saw of her the worse he would be. Not one man in a thousand was capable of feeling so intensely and deeply as Aylmer felt, and never in his life before had he felt anything like it. And now it came on again with the ebb and flow of passion, like an illness. Why was he so miserable--why would nothing else do? He suddenly remembered with a smile that when he was five years old he had adored a certain nurse, and for some reason or other his mother sent her away. He had cried and cried for her to come back. He remembered even now how people had said: 'Oh, the child will soon forget.' But he wore out their patience; he cried himself to sleep every night. And his perseverance had at last been rewarded. After six weeks the nurse came back. His mother sent for her in despair at the boy's misery. How well he remembered that evening and her plain brown face, with the twinkling eyes. How he kissed his mother, and thanked her! The nurse stayed till he went to school and then he soon forgot all about her. Perhaps it was in his nature at rare intervals to want one particular person so terribly, to pine and die for someone!