Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved object,--that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is, I think, always innocent. Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all. 
He was not impelled by love. 