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“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. He was entranced as she walked towards him. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply. It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. I should have gone mad without it. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. You see me here, an admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another.
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