wearily, looking older than he was in the pathos of loss.

Life with her meant an indefinitely prolonged youth, an ecstasy he had
not dreamt of, the well-being of his whole nature. He walked along
moodily, thinking how he would have started afresh, smartened up
Undern, worked hard, given his children--his and Hazel's--a good
education, become more sober.

But he had been a fortnight too late. A miserable fortnight! He, who
had raved over the countryside, had missed her. Marston, who had simply
remained on his mountain, had won her.

'It's damned unfair!' he said, and pathos faded from him in his rage.
All the vague thoughts, dark and turgid, of the last two nights took
shape slowly.

He neither cursed nor brooded any more. He thought keenly as he walked.
His face took a more powerful cast--it had never been a weak face at
the worst--and he looked a man that it would not be easy to combat.
Bitter hatred of Edward possessed him, silent fury against fate,
relentless determination to get Hazel whether she would or not. He had
a purpose in life now. Vessons was surprised at his quick,
authoritative manner.

'Make me some sandwiches early to-morrow,' he said, 'and you'll have to
go to the auction. I shan't go myself.'

''Ow can I go now? Who's to do the cheeses?'

'Give 'em to the pigs.'