when he was with her nothing occurred. She did not apparently care for
him; he was not even sure that he wanted her to. At Oxford during his last
term he had thought of her--incessantly, a hot pain at his heart. He had
not invited the disturbance that had sent him down, but he had welcomed
it.

Every day he went to "The Dog and Pilchard." He drank but little and
talked to no one. He just leaned up against the wall and looked at her.
Sometimes he had a word with her. He knew that they must all be speaking
of it. Maybe the whole town was chattering. He could not think of that. He
had no plans, no determination, no resolve--and he was desperately
unhappy....

Into this strange dark confusion the thought of his mother drove itself.
He had from the very beginning been aware of his father in this
connection. In his own selfish way he loved his father, and he shared in
his pride and self-content. He was proud of his father for being what he
was, for his good-natured contempt of other people, for his handsome body
and his dominance of the town. He could understand that his father should
feel as he did, and he did honestly consider him a magnificent man and far
above every one else in the place. But that did not mean that he ever
listened to anything that his father said. He pleased himself in what he
did, and laughed at his father's temper.

He had perceived from the first that this connection of his with Annie
Hogg might do his father very much harm, and he did not want to harm him.
The thought of this did not mean that for a moment he contemplated
dropping the affair because of his father--no, indeed--but the thought of
the old man, as he termed him, added dimly to his general unhappiness. He
appreciated the way that his father had taken his return from Oxford. The