is effect were first
forming themselves, that a separation between a man and his wife once
effected cannot be annulled, and as it were cured, so as to leave no
cicatrice behind. Gradually, as he spent day after day in thinking on
this one subject, he came to feel that even were his wife to submit,
to own her fault humbly, and to come back to him, this very coming
back would in itself be a new wound. Could he go out again with
his wife on his arm to the houses of those who knew that he had
repudiated her because of her friendship with another man? Could
he open again that house in Curzon Street, and let things go on
quietly as they had gone before? He told himself that it was
impossible;--that he and she were ineffably disgraced;--that, if
reunited, they must live buried out of sight in some remote distance.
And he told himself, also, that he could never be with her again
night or day without thinking of the separation. His happiness had
been shipwrecked.

Then he had put himself into the hands of Mr. Bozzle, and Mr. Bozzle
had taught him that women very often do go astray. Mr. Bozzle's idea
of female virtue was not high, and he had opportunities of implanting
his idea on his client's mind. Trevelyan hated the man. He was filled
with disgust by Bozzle's words, and was made miserable by Bozzle's
presence. Yet he came gradually to believe in Bozzle. Bozzle alone
believed in him. There were none but Bozzle who did not bid him to
submit himself to his disobedient wife. And then, as he came to
believe in Bozzle, he grew to be more and more assured that no one
but Bozzle could tell him facts. His chivalry, and love, and sense of
woman's honour, with something of manly pride on his own part,--so
he told himself,--had taught him to believe it to be impossible that
his wife should have sinned. Bozzle, who knew the world, thought
otherwise. Bozzle, who had no interest in the matter, one way or the
other, would find out facts. What if his chivalry, and love, and
manly pride had deceived him? There were women who sinned. Then he
prayed that his wife might not be such a woman; and got up from his
prayers almost convinced that she was a sinner.

His mind was at work upon it always. Could it be that she was so base
as this--so vile a thing, so abject, such dirt, pollution, filth? But
there were such cases. Nay, were they not almost numberless? He found
himself reading in the papers records of such things from day to
day, and thought