something for him! He went into a quiet restaurant to look at
his treasure. He lit up with thrills of bliss as he turned from
picture to picture. He had found something at last, in these
carvings. His soul had great satisfaction. Had he not come out
to seek, and had he not found! He was in a passion of
fulfilment. These were the finest carvings, statues, he had ever
seen. The book lay in his hands like a doorway. The world around
was only an enclosure, a room. But he was going away. He
lingered over the lovely statues of women. A marvellous,
finely-wrought universe crystallized out around him as he looked
again, at the crowns, the twining hair, the woman-faces. He
liked all the better the unintelligible text of the German. He
preferred things he could not understand with the mind. He loved
the undiscovered and the undiscoverable. He pored over the
pictures intensely. And these were wooden statues,
"Holz"--he believed that meant wood. Wooden statues so
shapen to his soul! He was a million times gladdened. How
undiscovered the world was, how it revealed itself to his soul!
What a fine, exciting thing his life was, at his hand! Did not
Bamberg Cathedral make the world his own? He celebrated his
triumphant strength and life and verity, and embraced the vast
riches he was inheriting.

But it was about time to go home. He had better catch a
train. All the time there was a steady bruise at the bottom of
his soul, but so steady as to be forgettable. He caught a train
for Ilkeston.

It was ten o'clock as he was mounting the hill to Cossethay,
carrying his limp book on Bamberg Cathedral. He had not yet
thought of Anna, not definitely. The dark finger pressing a
bruise controlled him thoughtlessly.

Anna had started guiltily when he left the house. She had
hastened preparing the tea, hoping he would come back. She had
made some toast, and got all ready. Then he didn't come. She
cried with vexation and disappointment. Why had he gone? Why
couldn't he come back now? Why was it such a battle between
them? She loved him--she did love him--why couldn't he
be kinder to her, nicer to her?

She waited in distress--then her mood grew harder. He
passed out of her thoughts. She had considered indignantly, what
right he had to interfere with her sewing? She had indignantly
refuted his right to interfere with her at all. She was not to
be interfered with. Was she not herself, and he the
outsider.

Yet a quiver of fear went through h