21
T
he
first snow of winter whirled over the pavements and disappeared. Tregan drove his mind harshly to routine work. It continually escaped from the routine and he lashed it back. It wandered again everlastingly to Alice.
He goaded himself with the old two-sided arguments. His objective and subjective selves battered each other.
“You’re love-sick like a puppy,” the objective would say. “It’s silly—sloppy mush—as bad as a lousy Hollywood pap love story! And what about Joan?”
“But nothing else matters,” he would answer himself. “I want to see Alice—to talk to her.”
“You’ll forget her soon.”
“I won’t. I won’t ever forget her.”
“Tripe! Men have died and worms have eaten them—but not for love. Any love affair can be put out of your memory in six months. You couldn’t keep it alive fo
