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"The universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent parent, I am
afraid." 


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And for what? For a mere folly, a masquerade, a little thing that he could
not let go. AND HE COULD EVEN LET IT GO, he told himself. But he had
promised to be in London at mid- summer, and he knew that he would go. . . .
It was impossible to live like this any longer. 
And this, then, was to be the disaster that his old professor had foreseen
for him: the crack in the wall, the crash, the cloud of dust. And he could
not understand how it had come about. He felt that he himself was unchanged,
that he was still there, the same man he had been five years ago, and that
he was sitting stupidly by and letting some resolute offshoot of himself
spoil his life for him. This new force was not he, it was but a part of him.
He would not even admit that it was stronger than he; but it was more
active. It was by its energy that this new feeling got the better of him.
His . was the woman who had made his life, gratified his pride, given
direction to his tastes and habits. The life they led together seemed to him
beautiful. Winifred still was, as she had always been, Romance for him, and
whenever he was deeply stirred he turned to her. When the grandeur and
beauty of the world challenged him-- as it challenges even the most
self-absorbed people-- he always answered with her name. That was his reply
to the question put by the mountains and the stars; to all the spiritual
aspects of life. In his feeling for his . there was all the tenderness, all
the pride, all the devotion of which he was capable. There was everything
but energy; the energy of youth which must register itself and cut its name
before it passes. This new feeling was so fresh, so unsatisfied and light of
foot. It ran and was not wearied, anticipated him everywhere. It put a
girdle round the earth while he was going from New York to Moorlock. At this
moment, it was tingling through him, exultant, and live as quicksilver,
whispering, "In July you will be in England."