She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over. But that is men all over. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return.
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