Outside in the streets of Soho, which always gave him such a feeling of property improperly owned, he mused. If only Irene had given him a son, he wouldn’t now be squirming after women! The thought had jumped out of its little dark sentry-box in his inner consciousness. A son⁠—something to look forward to, something to make the rest of life worth while, something to leave himself to, some perpetuity of self. “If I had a son,” he thought bitterly, “a proper legal son, I could make shift to go on as I used. One woman’s much the same as another, after all.” But as he walked he shook his head. No! One woman was not the same as another. Many a time had he tried to think that in the old days of his thwarted married life; and he had always failed. He was failing now. He was trying to think Annette the same as that other. But she was not, she had not the lure of that old passion. “And Irene’s my wife,” he thought, “my legal wife. I have done nothing to put her away from me. Why shouldn’t she come back to me? It’s the right thing, the lawful thing. It makes no scandal, no disturbance. If it’s disagreeable to her⁠—but why should