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 loney--that's the trouble.'
He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark street
below a church--passing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam of
her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold
spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. He opened his eyes--so
vividly he had seen her! A woman was passing below, but not she! Oh no,
there was nothing there!