He went back to the carriage, brooding. “Go on home, Jordan,” he said to the coachman; “I’ll walk.” And he strode out into the darkening lanes, caution and the desire of possession playing seesaw within him. “ Bon soir, monsieur! ” How softly she had said it. To know what was in her mind! The French⁠—they were like cats⁠—one could tell nothing! But⁠—how pretty! What a perfect young thing to hold in one’s arms! What a mother for his heir! And he thought, with a smile, of his family and their surprise at a French wife, and their curiosity, and of the way he would play with it and buffet it⁠—confound them!

The poplars sighed in the darkness; an owl hooted. Shadows deepened in the water. “I will and must be free,” he thought. “I won’t hang about any longer. I’ll go and see Irene. If you want things done, do them yourself. I must live again⁠—live and move and have my being.” And in echo to that queer biblicality church-bells chimed the call to evening prayer.

And Visits the Past