ous agony of that season came back to him with its
old poignancy. The sight of Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his
restless eyes always wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity,
with which was mingled strange, irresistible envy.

He knew the signs so well. Whither was he going--to what sort of fate?
What kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by that magnetic
force which no consideration of honour, no principle, no interest could
withstand; from which the only escape was flight.

Flight! But why should Bosinney fly? A man fled when he was in danger
of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, when he felt
himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. But here, so he had
heard, it was all broken to his hand.

He himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come over
again. Yet he had gone further than Bosinney, had broken up his own
unhappy home, not someone else's: And the old saying came back to him:
'A man's fate lies in his own heart.'

In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the eating--Bosinney
had still to eat his pudding.

His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, but
the outline of whose story he had heard.

An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment--only that indefinable malaise,
that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under Heaven; and so
from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from year to
year, till death should end it.

But young Jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had
assuaged, saw Soames' side of the question too. Whence should a man like
his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and beliefs of his class,
draw the insight or inspiration necessary to break up this life? It was
a question of imagination, of projecting himself into the future
beyond the unpleasant gossip, sneers, and tattle that followed on such
separations, beyond the passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her
would cause, beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men,
and especially few men of Soames' class, had imagination enough for
that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination to go
round! And sweet Heaven, what a difference between theory and practice;
many a man, perhaps even Soames, held chivalrous views on such matters,
who when the shoe pinched found a distinguishing factor that made of
himself an exception.

Then, too, he distrusted his judgment. He had been through