It required, however, but a glance at their two faces to see that this was none of those affairs of a season that distract men and women about town; none of those sudden appetites that wake up ravening, and are surfeited and asleep again in six weeks. This was the real thing! This was what had happened to himself! Out of this anything might come!

Bosinney was pleading, and she so quiet, so soft, yet immovable in her passivity, sat looking over the grass.

Was he the man to carry her off, that tender, passive being, who would never stir a step for herself? Who had given him all herself, and would die for him, but perhaps would never run away with him!

It seemed to young Jolyon that he could hear her saying: “But, darling, it would ruin you!” For he himself had experienced to the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of each woman’s heart that she is a drag on the man she loves.

And he peeped at them no more; but their soft, rapid talk came to his ears, with the stuttering song of some bird who seemed trying to remember the notes of spring: Joy⁠—tragedy? Which⁠—which?

And gradually their talk ceased; long silence followed.

“And where does Soames come in?” young Jolyon thought. “People think she is concerned about the sin of deceiving her husband! Little they know of women! She’s eating, after starvation⁠—taking her revenge! And Heaven help her⁠—for he’ll take his.”

He heard the swish of silk, and, spying round the laurel, saw them walking away, their hands stealthily joined.⁠ ⁠…