He found his hat and went.

He walked towards the Park, unconsciously attracted towards the biggest
space, the freshest air; his hands were folded behind him, his head
bowed. And since, of all things, Nature is ironical, it was fitting
that he should seek the Park this day when it was gayest. And far in the
Park, as near the centre as might be, he lay down on the grass. For a
long time he lay without moving, his hands over his eyes, and in
spite of Mr. Paramor's reminder that his suffering was unnecessary, he
suffered.

And mostly he suffered from black loneliness, for he was a very lonely
man, and now he had lost that which he had thought he had. It is
difficult to divide suffering, difficult to say how much he suffered,
because, being in love with her, he had secretly thought she must love
him a little, and how much he suffered because his private portrait of
her, the portrait that he, and he alone, had painted, was scored through
with the knife. And he lay first on his face, and then on his back, with
his hand always over his eyes. And around him were other men lying on
the grass, and some were lonely, and some hungry, and some asleep, and
some were lying there for the pleasure of doing nothing and for the sake
of the hot sun on their cheeks; and by the side of some lay their girls,
and it was these that Gregory could not bear to see, for his spirit and
his senses were a-hungered. In the plantations close by were pigeons,
and never for a moment did they stop cooing; never did the blackbirds
cease their courting songs; the sun its hot, sweet burning; the clouds
above their love-chase in the sky. It was the day without a past,
without a future, when it is not good for man to be alone. And no man
looked at him, because it was no man's business, but a woman here and
there cast a glance on that long, tweed-suited figure with the hand over
the eyes, and wondered, perhaps, what was behind that hand. Had they but
known, they would have smiled their woman's smile that he should so have
mistaken one of their sex.

Gregory lay quite still, looking at the sky, and because he was a loyal
man he did not blame her, but slowly, very slowly, his spirit, like a
spring stretched to the point of breaking, came back upon itself, and
since he could not bear to see things as they were, he began again to
see them as they were not.

'She has been forced into this,' he thought. 'It is George Pendyce's
fault. To me she is, she must be, the