Marcella, without
leave-taking, drove away.

Christian lingered as long as possible over the morning paper, unable
to determine how he should waste the weary hours that lay before him.
There was no reason for his remaining in London through this brief
season of summer glow. Means and leisure were his, he could go whither
he would. But the effort of decision and departure seemed too much for
him. Worst of all, this lassitude (not for the first time) was
affecting his imagination; he thought with a dull discontent of the
ideal love to which he had bound himself. Could he but escape from it,
and begin a new life! But he was the slave of his airy obligation; for
very shame's sake his ten years' consistency must be that of a lifetime.

There was but one place away from London to which he felt himself
drawn, and that was the one place he might not visit. This morning's
sunshine carried him back to that day when he had lain in the meadow
near Twybridge and talked with Godwin Peak. How distinctly he
remembered his mood! 'Be practical--don't be led astray after
ideals--concentrate yourself;'--yes, it was he who had given that
advice to Peak: and had he but recked his own rede--! Poor little
Janet! was she married? If so, her husband must be a happy man.

Why should he not go down to Twybridge? His uncle, undoubtedly still
living, must by this time have forgotten the old resentment, perhaps
would be glad to see him. In any case he might stroll about the town
and somehow obtain news of the Moxey family.

With vague half-purpose he left the house and walked westward. The
stream of traffic in Edgware Road brought him to a pause; he stood for
five minutes in miserable indecision, all but resolving to go on as far
as Euston and look for the next northward train. But the vice in his
will prevailed; automaton-like he turned in another direction, and
presently came out into Sussex Square. Here was the house to which his
thoughts had perpetually gone forth ever since that day when Constance
gave her hand to a thriving City man, and became Mrs. Palmer. At
present, he knew, it was inhabited only by domestics: Mr. Palmer,
recovering from illness that threatened to be fatal, had gone to
Bournemouth, where Constance of course tended him. But he would walk
past and look up at the windows.

All the blinds were down--naturally. Thrice he went by and retraced his
steps. Then, still automaton-like, he approached the door, rang the
bell. The a