Chance, in fact, was forever at work fulfilling its own secret aesthetic laws; but every now and then, as at this fatal moment, its creation became especially vivid, and the whole “psychic map” upon that flowing stream grew violently and intensely agitated. The circle of ripples he was now contemplating with this inhuman detachment had two circumferences, namely, the angry consciousness of Gerda and the supercilious consciousness of his mother; but below them both⁠—down there on the quiet river-floor⁠—was the discolored, decomposed, unrecognizable face of the young Redfern.

“You’ve never liked my marrying him!” It was Gerda’s voice he heard now, as he awoke from his metaphysical trance to realize that part of his mother’s last remarks had fallen upon nothing but the surface of his mind.

“I’ve always been an outsider to both of you,” the angry girl went on. “You’ve always despised me and my family, and done your best to make him despise us.”