For the next few months Geoffrey worked as men rarely work.  All day he was at his chambers or in court, and at night he sat in the House, getting up his briefs when he could.  But he always did get them up; no solicitors had to complain that the interests of their client were neglected by him; also he still found time to write to Beatrice.  For the rest he went out but little, and except in the way of business associated with very few.  Indeed he grew more and more silent and reserved, till at last he won the reputation of being cold and hard.  Not that he was really so.  He threw himself head and soul into his work with a fixed determination to reach the top of the tree.  He knew that he should not care very much about it when he got there, but he enjoyed the struggle.

Geoffrey was not a truly ambitious man; he was no mere self-seeker.  He knew the folly of ambition too well, and its end was always clearly before his eyes.  He often thought to himself that if he could have chosen his lot, he would have asked for a cottage with a good garden, five hundred a year, and somebody to care for.  But perhaps he would soon have wearied of his cottage.  He worked to stifle thought, and to some extent he succeeded.  But he was at bottom an affectionate-natured man, and he could not stifle the longing for sympathy which was his secret weakness, though his pride would never allow him to show it.  What did he care for his triumphs when he had nobody with whom to share them?  All he could share were their fruits, and these he gave away freely enough.  It was but little that Geoffrey spent upon his own gratification.  A certain share of his gains he put by, the rest went in expenses.  The house in Bolton Street was a very gay place in those days, but its master took but little part in its gaieties.

And what was the fact?  The longer he remained separated from Beatrice the more intensely did he long for her society.  It was of no use; try as he would, he could not put that sweet face from his mind; it drew him as a magnet draws a needle.  Success did not bring him happiness, except in the sense that it relieved him from money cares.

People of coarse temperament only can find real satisfaction in worldly triumphs, and eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow they die!  Men like Geoffrey soon learn that this also is vanity.  On the contrary, as his mind grew more and more wearied with the strain of work, melancholy took an ever stronger hold of it.  Had he gone to a doctor, he might have been told that his liver was out of order, which was very likely true.  But this would not mend matters.  “What a world,” he might have cried, “what a world to live in when all the man’s happiness depends upon his liver!” He contracted an accursed habit of looking on the black side of things; trouble always caught his eye.