He could have wept for her and for himself. He could even have
wept for humanity. Yet he felt the comfort of one from whom an almost
intolerable strain has just been removed. To a man of his calibre,
sensitive, almost feminine in his subtlety, the situation had been
exquisitely painful. He had felt what Viola was feeling as well as what
he was feeling. He had struggled like a creature taken in a net. And how
useless it had all been! He found himself horribly inferior to her. Her
behaviour at this critical moment had proved to him that in his almost
fantastic conception of her he had shown real insight. Then why had his
heart betrayed his intellect? Why had his imagination proved true metal,
his affection false? He asked himself these questions. He searched his
own nature, as many a man has done in moments when he has found himself
unworthy. And he was met by mystery, by the "It was impossible for me!"
which stings the soul that would be strong. He remembered Carey's words
that night in Half Moon Street when Sir Donald had accompanied him home
after the dinner in Cadogan Square. Sir Donald had gone. He and Carey
were alone, and he had said that if one loves, one loves the kernel not
the shell. And Carey had said, "I think if the shell is a beautiful
shell, and becomes suddenly broken, it makes a devil of a lot of
difference in what most people think of the kernel." And when
he--Robin--had replied, "It wouldn't to me," Carey had abruptly
exclaimed, "I think it would.
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