"Stepan--what am I going to do about Amaryllis? If I come back, it will be hell--a continual longing and aching, and I want to accomplish something in life; it was never my plan to have the whole thing held and bounded by passion for a woman. A hopeless passion I can understand facing and crushing, but one which you know that the woman returns, and that it is only the law and promises you have made which separate you, is the most awful torment." He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. His face was stern. "And her life too--how sickening. You say you are going down to Ardayre to see Amaryllis--you will tell me how you find her. I have not written--I am trying not to feel." "Are you interested about the coming child? I am never quite certain how much it matters to a man, whether we deceive ourselves and feel sentiment simply because we love the woman, whether the emotion is half vanity, or whether there is something in the actual state called parenthood? How do you feel?" Denzil thought of his musings upon this subject after he had seen Amaryllis at the Carlton. "It is hard to describe," he answered now, "it is all so interwoven with love for Amaryllis that I cannot distinguish which is which, or how I feel about the state in the abstract. Women have these mysterious emotions, I believe, but I do not think that they come to the average man, but if he loves it seems a fulfilment." "I have two children scattered in Russia, begotten before I had begun to think of things and their meanings. I have them finely educated--I loathe them. I sicken at the memory of the mothers; I am ashamed when I see in them some chance physical likeness to myself. But how will you feel presently when you see the child, adoring the mother as you do? What will it say to you, looking at you with your own eyes, perhaps? You'll long to have some hand in the training of it. You'll desire to watch the budding brain and the expanding soul. You'll be drawn closer and closer to Amaryllis--it will all pull you with an invisible nature chain--" "I know it,--that is the tragedy of the whole thing. Those delights will be John's--and I hate to think that Amaryllis will be alone for all these months--and yet I believe I would prefer that to her being with John. I am jealous when I remember that he has rights denied to me--so what must he feel, poor devil, when he remembers about me?" "It is quite a peculiar situation. I wonder what the years will develop it into." "If the child is a girl, the whole thing is in vain." "It won't be a girl--you will see I am right. When will you and John get leave, do you suppose?" "I don't know, but about Christmas, perhaps, if we are alive--" "Do you want to see her again, then?" "I long always to see her--but by Christmas--it would be nearly five months. I don't think I could keep my word and not make love to her--if I saw her--then." "You will wish to hear about her--?" "Always."