is reward was
her inexcusable interference in his private business.

His accident was due solely to his benevolence for her. If he had not
been wheeling a bicycle procured for her, and on his way to buy her a
new bicycle, the accident would never have occurred. But had she shown
any gratitude? None. It was true that he had vaguely authorized her to
return half of the money replaced by the contrite Julian; but no date
for doing so had been fixed, and assuredly she had no pretext whatever
for dealing with all of it. That she should go to Julian Maldon with
either the half or the whole of the money without previously informing
him and obtaining the ratification of his permission was simply
scandalous. And that she should sneakingly search his pockets for
keys, commit a burglary in his drawer, and sneakingly put the keys
back was outrageous, infamous, utterly intolerable.

He said, "I'll teach you a lesson, my lady, once for all."

Then he went downstairs. The kitchen was empty; Mrs. Tams had gone.
But between the kitchen and the parlour he changed his course, and ran
upstairs again to the drawer, which he pulled wide open. At the back
of it there ought to have been an envelope containing twenty pounds in
notes, balance of an advance payment from old Batchgrew. The envelope
was there with its contents. Rachel had left the envelope. "Good of
her!" he ejaculated with sarcasm. He put the money in his pocket-book,
and descended to finish his tea, which he drank up excitedly.

A dubious scheme was hypnotizing him. He was a man well acquainted
with the hypnotism of dubious schemes. He knew all the symptoms.
He fought against the magic influence, and then, as always, yielded
himself deliberately and voluptuously to it. He would go away. He
would not wait; he would go at once, in a moment. She deserved as
much, if not more. He knew not where he should go; a thousand reasons
against going assailed him; but he would go. He must go. He could no
longer stand, even for a single hour, her harshness, her air of moral
superiority, her adamantine obstinacy. He missed terribly her candid
worship of him, to which he had grown accustomed and which had become
nearly a necessity of his existence. He could not live with an eternal
critic; the prospect was totally inconceivable. He wanted love, and he
wanted admiring love, and without it marriage was meaningless to him,
a mere imprisonment.

So he would go. He could not and would not pack; to