! What
steps? How? Dirty linen washed in public? Pah! With his reputation for
sagacity, for far-sightedness and the clever extrication of others, he,
who stood for proprietary interests, to become the plaything of that Law
of which he was a pillar! There was something revolting in the thought!
Winifred's affair was bad enough! To have a double dose of publicity in
the family! Would not a liaison be better than that--a liaison, and a
son he could adopt? But dark, solid, watchful, Madame Lamotte blocked
the avenue of that vision. No! that would not work. It was not as if
Annette could have a real passion for him; one could not expect that at
his age. If her mother wished, if the worldly advantage were manifestly
great--perhaps! If not, refusal would be certain. Besides, he thought:
'I'm not a villain. I don't want to hurt her; and I don't want anything
underhand. But I do want her, and I want a son! There's nothing for it
but divorce--somehow--anyhow--divorce!' Under the shadow of the
plane-trees, in the lamplight, he passed slowly along the railings of the
Green Park. Mist clung there among the bluish tree shapes, beyond range
of the lamps. How many hundred times he had walked past those trees from
his father's house in Park Lane, when he was quite a young man; or from
his own house in Montpellier Square in those four years of married life!
And, to-night, making up his mind to free himself if he could of that
long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk on, in at Hyde Park
Corner, out at Knightsbridge Gate, just as he used to when going home to
Irene in the old days. What could she be like now?--how had she passed
the years since he last saw her, twelve years in all, seven already since
Uncle Jolyon left her that money? Was she still beautiful? Would he
know her if he saw her? 'I've not changed much,' he thought; 'I expect
she has. She made me suffer.' He remembered suddenly one night, the
first on which he went out to dinner alone--an old Malburian dinner--the
first year of their marriage. With what eagerness he had hurried back;
and, entering softly as a cat, had heard her playing. Opening the
drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression on
her face, different from any he knew, so much more open, so confiding, as
though to her music she was giving a heart he had never seen. And he
remembered how she stopped and looked round, how her face changed back to
that which he