Iglesias listened in a somewhat grim spirit of endurance. On the far side
of the Green he could see the gaslights in the Lovegroves' dining-room.
These appeared to watch him rather uncomfortably, as with three
supplicating and reproachful eyes. He debated whether he would not take
his hat, step across, and tell his old friend what had happened--it would
at least relieve him of the sound of little Farge's serenading. But his
pride recoiled somehow. Good souls, man and wife, they would be full of
solicitude and kindness; but they would say the wrong thing. They would
not understand. How, indeed, should they, being wholly at one with their
surroundings--unimaginative, domestic, British middle-class, with its
virtues and limitations aggressively in evidence? George Lovegrove would
suggest some minor municipal office, or membership of the local borough
council, as a crown of consolation. His wife would skirt round the
subject of matrimony. She had done so before now; and Iglesias, while
presenting a dignified front to the enemy, had inwardly shuddered. She
was an excellent, estimable woman; but when ponderously arch, when
extensively sly! Oh, dear no! It didn't do. Her gambols were too sadly
suggestive of those of a skittish hippopotamus. Dominic Iglesias was
conscious that he had a skin too little to-night; he could not witness
them with philosophy. The kindliest intention, the best-meant words,
might cause him extravagant annoyance.

He turned away from the window and took a turn the length of the room--a
tall, distinct, and even stately figure in the thickening dusk. He felt
rather horribly desolate. He was fairly frightened by the greatness of
the emptiness, within and about him, engendered by absence of employment.
He had little to reproach himself with. His record was cleaner than most
men's--he could not but know that. He had sacrificed personal ambition,
personal happiness, to the service of one supremely dear to him. Not for
a moment did he regret it. Had it to be done all over again, without