It had not heretofore been Maddison’s habit of mind to weigh the wisdom of any of his acts, or to analyze any of his emotions. He had been frankly pagan, the joy of life was his while it was his with little if any alloy of pain or doubt; questions of present action or future conduct had not occurred to him. His emotions with regard to women had not been deep; they were a beautiful provision of nature for adding beauty to an already beautiful world; their voices, their graces, their loveliness, their caresses had charmed him, but had never absorbed him; not one of them had ever attained to any influence over him until his renewed friendship with Marian. In fact, nature had been his real mistress; when last at Rottingdean, for many weeks together he had led practically the life of a hermit, working in the studio and rambling far and wide across the country or along the coast. It was absolute joy to him to lie on his back, watching the panorama of the sky; to stand on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the sea, noting its subtle changes of color. Everything in nature, big or little, was lovable to him; the vast glory of a blood-red sunset; the minute perfection of a weed; the tumult and splendid power of a storm-smitten sea; the dewdrops upon a spraying fern; the cold, clear tones of sunrise or the trembling mystery of midday heat. No season came amiss to him: winter, spring, summer, autumn, there was no sameness in nature, save that of unadulterated beauty. But he understood now that a change had come over him; between him and nature had come one woman. The weather was cold, with days of biting, searching east wind; he could not saunter about the countryside, but would stride along at a great pace. What was it that had come into the foreground of every picture upon which his eyes rested? It seemed to him as if he were never alone now—Marian was always with him, persistently whispering in his ear: “You love me—you love me!” She had taken entire and sole possession of him; round her centered his every desire, every hope, every ambition. One bright morning he stood at the edge of the cliff, some little distance from the village, the gentle murmur of a calm sea far below, and in his ears that weird muttering of vagrant winds which comes before the breaking of a tempest. He stood looking down on the rocks and shingle far below, thinking of Marian, counting the number of hours that remained to pass before her approaching visit, for it had been arranged that she should come down soon for a few days. Suddenly the thought came into his mind of the horror of her standing there beside him, of her being giddy, of her reeling, and clutching at his arm, missing her hold, falling down—down—a shapeless mass on the stones below. The horror of it sickened him.