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 lonely⁠—that’s the trouble.”