Once or twice, when owing to Perigal’s not making an appearance, Mavis spent the evening alone, she would feel keenly disappointed, and would go home with a strong sense of the emptiness of life.

During her day at the office, or when in her lodgings, she was either absent-minded or self-conscious; she was always longing to get away with only her thoughts for company.  She would sometimes sigh for apparently no reason at all.  Then Miss Toombs lent her a volume of Shelley, the love passages in which Mavis eagerly devoured.  Her favourite time for reading was in bed.  She marked, to read and reread, favourite passages.  Often in the midst of these she would leave off, when her mind would pursue a train of thought inspired by a phrase or thought of the poet.  Very soon she had learned ‘Love’s Philosophy’ by heart.  The next symptom of the ailment from which she was suffering was a dreamy languor (frequently punctuated by sighs), which disposed her to offer passionate resentment to all forms of physical and mental effort.  This mood was not a little encouraged by the fact of the hay now lying on the ground, to the scent of which she was always emotionally susceptible.

Perigal renounced fishing at the same time as did Mavis.  He had a fine instinct for discovering her whereabouts in the meadows bordering the river.

For some while, she had no hesitation in suffering herself to cultivate his friendship.  If she had any doubts of the wisdom of the proceeding, there were always two ample justifications at hand.

The first of these was that her association with him had effected a considerable improvement in his demeanour.  He was no longer the mentally down-at-heel, soured man that he had been when Mavis first met him.  He had taken on a lightness of heart, which, with his slim, boyish beauty, was very attractive to Mavis, starved as she had been of all association with men of her own age and social position.  She believed that the beneficent influence she exercised justified the hours she permitted him of her society.

The other reason was that she deluded herself into believing that her sighs and Shelley-inspired imaginings were all because of Windebank’s imminent return.  She thought of him every day, more especially since she had met Perigal.  She often contrasted the two men in her thoughts, when it would seem as if Windebank’s presence, so far as she remembered it, had affected her life as a bracing, health-giving wind; whereas Perigal influenced her in the same way as did appealing music, reducing her to a languorous helplessness.  She had for so long associated Windebank with any sentimental leanings in which she had indulged, that she was convinced that her fidelity to his memory was sufficient safeguard against her becoming infatuated with Perigal.

Thus she travelled along a road, blinding herself the while to the direction in which she was going.  But one day, happening to obtain a glimpse of its possible destination, she resolved to make something of an effort, if not to retrace her way (she scarcely thought this necessary), to stay her steps.