Willoughby groaned. From the woman he did not love, whom he had never loved, he might not again go free; so much he recognised. The feeling he had once entertained for Esther, strange compound of mistaken chivalry and flattered vanity, was long since extinct; but what, then, was the sentiment with which she inspired him? For he was not indifferent to her--no, never for one instant could he persuade himself he was indifferent, never for one instant could he banish her from his thoughts. His mind's eye followed her during his hours of absence as pertinaciously as his bodily eye dwelt upon her actual presence. She was the principal object of the universe to him, the centre around which his wheel of life revolved with an appalling fidelity. What did it mean? What could it mean? he asked himself with anguish. And the sweat broke out upon his forehead and his hands grew cold, for on a sudden the truth lay there like a written word upon the tablecloth before him. This woman, whom he had taken to himself for better for worse, inspired him with a passion--intense indeed, all-masterful, soul-subduing as Love itself--.... But when he understood the terror of his Hatred, he laid his head upon his arms and wept, not facile tears like Esther's, but tears wrung out from his agonising, unavailing regret. Portrait of a Gentleman By Will Rothenstein _Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ [Illustration: Portrait of a Gentleman] Two Sonnets By William Watson I--The Frontier At the hushed brink of twilight,--when, as though Some solemn journeying phantom paused to lay An ominous finger on the awestruck day, Earth holds her breath till that great presence go,-- A moment comes of visionary glow, Pendulous 'twixt the gold hour and the grey, Lovelier than these, more eloquent than they Of memory, foresight, and life's ebb and flow. So have I known, in some fair woman's face, While viewless yet was Time's more gross imprint, The first, faint, hesitant, elusive hint Of that invasion of the vandal years Seem deeper beauty than youth's cloudless grace, Wake subtler dreams, and touch me nigh to tears. II--Night on Curbar Edge, Derbyshire No echo of man's life pursues my ears; Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign; Change comes not, this dread temple to profane, Where time by æons reckons, not by years. Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears, Type of whate'er is destined to remain While yon still host encamped on Night's waste plain Keeps armèd watch, a million quivering spears. Hushed are the wild and wing'd lives of the moor; The sleeping sheep nestle 'neath ruined wall, Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled: Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate's door; And there is built and 'stablisht over all Tremendous Silence, older than the world. The Reflected Faun