Yet, for a man who did not love, he was oddly angry at the sight of two
young figures on the doorstep. Their clear voices came to him across
the quiet street, vibrant and full of youth. It was the Sayre boy and
Elizabeth.

He half stopped, and looked across. They were quite oblivious of him,
intent and self-absorbed. As he had viewed Reynolds' unconscious figure
with jealous dislike, so he viewed Wallace Sayre. Here, everywhere, his
place was filled. He was angry with an unreasoning, inexplicable anger,
angry at Elizabeth, angry at the boy, and at himself.

He had but to cross the street and take his place there. He could
drive that beardless youngster away with a word. The furious possessive
jealousy of the male animal, which had nothing to do with love, made him
stop and draw himself up as he stared across.

Then he smiled wryly and went on. He could do it, but he did not want
to. He would never do it. Let them live their lives, and let him live
his. But he knew that there, across the street, so near that he might
have raised his voice and summoned her, he was leaving the best thing
that had come into his life; the one fine and good thing, outside of
David and Lucy. That against its loss he had nothing but an infatuation
that had ruined three lives already, and was not yet finished.