But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing ache--a

jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this fellow held

precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of resistance to his

way out. 'Does that mean that you're against me?' he had got nothing out

of that disingenuous question. Feminist! Phrasey fellow! 'I mustn't rush

things,' he thought. 'I have some breathing space; he's not going back

to Paris, unless he was lying. I'll let the spring come!' Though how the

spring could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell.

And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from pool

to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: 'Nothing seems any

good--nothing seems worth while. I'm loney--that's the trouble.'

He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark street

below a church--passing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam of

her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold

spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. He opened his eyes--so

vividly he had seen her! A woman was passing below, but not she! Oh no,

there was nothing there!




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