'
I can't explain, but it was almost a relief when I found it was too
late."
"What I don't understand is why you didn't go next day?"
"Nor do I; for naturally I wanted to see her, only I couldn't go,
something held me back, and in despair I returned to England, unable
to endure the strain. There you have it, Harding; don't ask me any
more for I can't tell you any more. During the voyage I was near out
of my mind, and could have thrown myself overboard, yet I couldn't
go to see her, though she is the only person I really care to see.
Of course friends are different," he added apologetically.
"And you could not forget her in the desert?" "No, it only made me
worse. Amid the sands her image would appear more distinct than
ever. Now why is it that one loves one woman more than another, and
what is there in this woman that enchants me, and from whom I cannot
escape in thought?... Yet I didn't go to see her in New York."
"But would you go if she wrote to you?" "Oh, if she wrote--that would
be different, but she never will. There is no doubt, Harding, love
is a sort of madness, and it takes every man; none can look into his
life without finding that at some time or another he was mad; the
only thing is that it has taken me rather badly, and cure seems
farther off than ever.
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