Willoughby shut himself up in his laboratory to brood awhile after the conflict.  Sounding through himself, as it was habitual with him to do, for the plan most agreeable to his taste, he came on a strange discovery among the lower circles of that microcosm.  He was no longer guided in his choice by liking and appetite:  he had to put it on the edge of a sharp discrimination, and try it by his acutest judgement before it was acceptable to his heart:  and knowing well the direction of his desire, he was nevertheless unable to run two strides on a wish.  He had learned to read the world:  his partial capacity for reading persons had fled.  The mysteries of his own bosom were bare to him; but he could comprehend them only in their immediate relation to the world outside.  This hateful world had caught him and transformed him to a machine.  The discovery he made was, that in the gratification of the egoistic instinct we may so beset ourselves as to deal a slaughtering wound upon Self to whatsoever quarter we turn.

Surely there is nothing stranger in mortal experience.  The man was confounded.  At the game of Chess it is the dishonour of our adversary when we are stale-mated:  but in life, combatting the world, such a winning of the game questions our sentiments.

Willoughby’s interpretation of his discovery was directed by pity:  he had no other strong emotion left in him.  He pitied himself, and he reached the conclusion that he suffered because he was active; he could not be quiescent.  Had it not been for his devotion to his house and name, never would he have stood twice the victim of womankind.  Had he been selfish, he would have been the happiest of men!  He said it aloud.  He schemed benevolently for his unborn young, and for the persons about him:  hence he was in a position forbidding a step under pain of injury to his feelings.  He was generous:  otherwise would he not in scorn of soul, at the outset, straight off have pitched Clara Middleton to the wanton winds?  He was faithful in his affection:  Laetitia Dale was beneath his roof to prove it.  Both these women were examples of his power of forgiveness, and now a tender word to Clara might fasten shame on him—­such was her gratitude!  And if he did not marry Laetitia, laughter would be devilish all around him—­such was the world’s!  Probably Vernon would not long be thankful for the chance which varied the monotony of his days.  What of Horace?  Willoughby stripped to enter the ring with Horace:  he cast away disguise.  That man had been the first to divide him in the all but equal slices of his egoistic from his amatory self:  murder of his individuality was the crime of Horace De Craye.  And further, suspicion fixed on Horace (he knew not how, except that The Book bids us be suspicious of those we hate) as the man who had betrayed his recent dealings with Laetitia.