Then he stepped on to the verandah and crossed the lawn, carrying the
letter in his hand.
But already his mood was on the turn: it seemed as if, in the physical
effort of putting the words to paper, his rage had spent itself. He was
conscious now of a certain limpness, both of mind and body; his fit of
passion over, he felt dulled, almost indifferent to what had happened.
Now, too, another feeling was taking possession of him, opening up
vistas of a desert emptiness that he hardly dared to face.
But stay! . . . was that not a movement in the patch of blackness under
the fig-tree? Had not something stirred there? He stopped, and strained
his eyes. No, it was only a bough that swayed in the night air. He went
out of the garden to the corner of the road and came back empty handed.
But at the same spot he hesitated, and peered. "Who's there?" he asked
sharply. And again: "Is there any one there?" But the silence remained
unbroken; and once more he saw that the shifting of a branch had misled
him.
Mary was moving about the bedroom. He ought to go to her and ask pardon
for his violence. But he was not yet come to a stage when he felt equal
to a reconciliation; he would rest for a while, let his troubled balance
right itself. And so he lay down on the surgery sofa, and drew a rug
over him.
He closed his eyes, but could not sleep. His thoughts raced and flew;
his brain hunted clues and connections. He found himself trying to piece
things together; to fit them in, to recollect.
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