He bowed his head over his knees and watched the climbing of a tiny beetle up a bending stalk of grass. “To the universe,” he thought, “it matters no more whether I leave Gerda for Christie than whether that beetle reaches the top of that stalk! Gerda?⁠ ⁠… Christie?⁠ ⁠… What are they? Two skeletons covered with flesh; one richly and flexibly covered⁠ ⁠… one sparsely and meagrely covered! Two of them⁠ ⁠… that is all⁠ ⁠… just two of them!” And then, bowing his head still lower, so that the beetle and its grass-stalk almost filled up his whole vision, he began to imagine what it would be like if he did make some wild, desperate move. What would happen, for instance, if he were to carry Christie to London and get some job to support them both there, hidden from all the world? Gerda would return to her parents’ house. Old Malakite would get on somehow or other. His mother would⁠ ⁠… Well! What would his mother do? She had scarcely anything in the bank. Mr. Urquhart could hardly be expected to support her. No, it was unthinkable, impossible! The existence of his mother, her complete dependence on him, tied his hands fast and tight!