Returning back again another way, he lost himself at the foot of the hill in new and deserted suburb streets—­unfinished streets of seemingly unfinished houses.  Then a sort of boulevard where bourgeois families were taking the Sunday afternoon walk:  stout papas, stout, pallid mamas in rather cheap black fur, little girls very much dressed, and long lads in short socks and round sailor caps, ribbons fluttering.  Alien they felt, alien, alien, as a bourgeois crowd always does, but particularly a foreign, Sunday-best bourgeois crowd.  Aaron wandered and wandered, finding the tram terminus and trying blank, unfinished street after street.  He had a great disinclination to ask his way.

At last he recognised the bank and the little stream of water that ran along the street side.  So he was back in time for tea.  A hospital nurse was there, and two other strange women.  Arthur played the part of host.  Sir William came in from a walk with the dogs, but retired to his room without taking tea.

And so the evening fell.  Aaron sat in the hall at some distance from the fire, which burned behind its wrought iron gates.  He was tired now with all his impressions, and dispirited.  He thought of his wife and children at home:  of the church-bells ringing so loudly across the field beyond his garden end:  of the dark-clad people trailing unevenly across the two paths, one to the left, one to the right, forking their way towards the houses of the town, to church or to chapel:  mostly to chapel.  At this hour he himself would be dressed in his best clothes, tying his bow, ready to go out to the public house.  And his wife would be resenting his holiday departure, whilst she was left fastened to the children.

Rather tired and dispirited in this alien place, he wondered if he wished himself back.  But the moment he actually realised himself at home, and felt the tension of barrenness which it meant, felt the curious and deadly opposition of his wife’s will against his own nature, the almost nauseating ache which it amounted to, he pulled himself together and rejoiced again in his new surroundings.  Her will, her will, her terrible, implacable, cunning will!  What was there in the female will so diabolical, he asked himself, that it could press like a flat sheet of iron against a man all the time?  The female will!  He realised now that he had a horror of it.  It was flat and inflexible as a sheet of iron.  But also it was cunning as a snake that could sing treacherous songs.

Of two people at a deadlock, he always reminded himself, there is not one only wholly at fault.  Both must be at fault.  Having a detached and logical soul, he never let himself forget this truth.  Take Lottie!  He had loved her.  He had never loved any other woman.  If he had had his other affairs—­it was out of spite or defiance or curiosity.  They meant nothing.  He and Lottie had loved one another.  And the love had