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 and grief and anguish and humiliation, together with the fierce, nervous excitement brought about by the abuse of our natural forces. Jealousy, devastating, burning, consuming jealousy, devoured my vitals. I was jealous even of the motor that bore her to our rendezvous, jealous of the hours that kept her away from me, jealous of the servants to whom she gave orders. When I was perforce separated from her for a day I cursed her and myself. I was unable to work. I was unable to enjoy myself. In short, he concluded, his lip curling bitterly, I was in love.

You were, indeed, Campaspe echoed sympathetically.

Love, I found, is not happiness. It is a kind of consuming selfishness which ends in slavery. You belong to some one else. You no longer live with yourself. You lose your freedom and become the servant of glowering moods and the powers of darkness. You suggest a shadow rather than an object. The orientals, I understand, take these matters more lightly—Sigmund Freud would find no patients among the Arabs—but with us Northern races love is the bane of our existence. He paused to mop his face with his handkerchief. I shall not try your patience much longer, he announced.

Go on! Go on! Campaspe urged. Say all that you have to say!

I am nearly done. Day by day, I found myself growing weaker, readier to answer the call of the