anything⁠—oh no! He had made his vow and he would stick to it. But it did hurt that Stephen should take this sacrifice so much as a matter of course, should do nothing to help him in this new storm of suspicion. He had been a good friend once⁠—a jolly, companionable friend, openhearted and full of laughter⁠—the best friend a lonely bachelor could have. Well, it was done with now. He had lost that as he had lost everything else. And it had all begun with that lie. Perhaps it was a judgment. Perhaps there was never a virtuous lie.

He had bought at Charing Cross the October number of The Argus , because he had seen on the cover the name of Stephen Byrne, and he read everything that Stephen wrote. After dinner he sat down and read “The Death in the Wood.” And at first he read, as Margery had read, only with admiration, though it was now a jealous, almost reluctant admiration. He thought, “How can a mean swine like Stephen create such glorious high-minded stuff?” It was unnatural, wrong.