For a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the skylight above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly towards him down the stairway.  He tried to be philosophical.

Since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a wife, and he would console himself with other women.

It was but a spectral journey he made among such delights—­he had no appetite for these exploits.  He had never had much, and he had lost the habit.  He felt that he could never recover it.  His hunger could only be appeased by his wife, inexorable and frightened, behind these shut doors.  No other woman could help him.

This conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the dark.

His philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place.  Her conduct was immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within his power.  He desired no one but her, and she refused him!

She must really hate him, then!  He had never believed it yet.  He did not believe it now.  It seemed to him incredible.  He felt as though he had lost for ever his power of judgment.  If she, so soft and yielding as he had always judged her, could take this decided step—­what could not happen?

Then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue with Bosinney.  He did not believe that she was; he could not afford to believe such a reason for her conduct—­the thought was not to be faced.

It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his marital relations public property.  Short of the most convincing proofs he must still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to punish himself.  And all the time at heart—­he did believe.

The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched against the staircase wall.

Bosinney was in love with her!  He hated the fellow, and would not spare him now.  He could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over twelve thousand and fifty pounds—­the extreme limit fixed in the correspondence; or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue him for damages.  He would go to Jobling and Boulter and put the matter in their hands.  He would ruin the impecunious beggar!  And suddenly—­though what connection between the thoughts?—­he reflected that Irene had no money either.  They were both beggars.  This gave him a strange satisfaction.

The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall.  She was going to bed at last.  Ah!  Joy and pleasant dreams!  If she threw the door open wide he would not go in now!

But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered his eyes with his hands....

It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the dining-room window gazing gloomily into the Square.

The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the corner.  It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion, with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune.