Little spiders⁠—and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of all, his own tenacity, forever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it⁠—sentimental radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! What attraction had he?

“Besides, he’s come back,” he thought; “that doesn’t look⁠—I’ll go and see him!” and, taking out a card, he wrote: