Two things made his behaviour inexplicable. To begin with, it was
uncalled for. Robert Fielding, urged by John Severn in a last interview,
had given in all along the line. Not only had Eliot leave to stick to
his medicine (which he would have done in any case), but he was to go to
Bart's to work for his doctor's degree when his three years at Cambridge
were ended. His father had made a new will, leaving the estate to
Jerrold and securing to the eldest son an income almost large enough to
make up for the loss. Eliot, whose ultimate aim was research work, now
saw all the ways before him cleared. He had no longer anything to sulk
for.

Still more mysteriously, his sulking appeared to be related to Anne. He
had left off going for walks alone with her in the fields and woods; he
didn't show her things under his microscope any more. If she leaned over
his shoulder he writhed himself away; if his hand blundered against hers
he drew it back as if her touch burnt him. More often than not he would
go out of the room if she came into it. Yet as long as she was there he
couldn't keep his eyes off her. She would be sitting still, reading,
when she would be aware, again and again, of Eliot's eyes, lifted from
his book to fasten on her. She could feel them following her when she
walked away.

One wet day in August they were alone together in the schoolroom,
reading. Suddenly Anne felt his eyes on her. Their look was intent,
penetrating, disturbing; it burned at her under his jutting, sombre
eyebrows.

"Is there anything funny about me?" she said.