Baruch sat and mused before he went to bed. He had gone out stirred
by an idea, but it was already dead. Then he began to think about
Clara. Who was this Dennis who visited the Marshalls and the
Hopgoods? Oh! for an hour of his youth! Fifteen years ago the word
would have come unbidden if he had seen Clara, but now, in place of
the word, there was hesitation, shame. He must make up his mind to
renounce for ever. But, although this conclusion had forced itself
upon him overnight as inevitable, he could not resist the temptation
when he rose the next morning of plotting to meet Clara, and he
walked up and down the street opposite the shop door that evening
nearly a quarter of an hour, just before closing time, hoping that
she might come out and that he might have the opportunity of
overtaking her apparently by accident. At last, fearing he might
miss her, he went in and found she had a companion whom he instantly
knew, before any induction, to be her sister. Madge was not now the
Madge whom we knew at Fenmarket. She was thinner in the face and
paler. Nevertheless, she was not careless; she was even more
particular in her costume, but it was simpler. If anything, perhaps,
she was a little prouder. She was more attractive, certainly, than
she had ever been, although her face could not be said to be
handsomer. The slight prominence of the cheek-bone, the slight
hollow underneath, the loss of colour, were perhaps defects, but they
said something which had a meaning in it superior to that of the tint
of the peach. She had been reading a book while Clara was balancing
her cash, and she attempted to replace it. The shelf was a little
too high, and the volume fell upon the ground. It contained
Shelley's Revolt of Islam.
'Have you read Shelley?' said Baruch.
'Every line--when I was much younger.'
'Do you read him now?'
'Not much. I was an enthusiast for him when I was nineteen, but I
find that his subject matter is rather thin, and his themes are a
little worn. He was entirely enslaved by the ideals of the French
Revolution. Take away what the French Revolution contributed to his
poetry, and there is not much left.'
'As a man he is not very attractive to me.'
'Nor to me; I never shall forgive his treatment of Harriet.'
'I suppose he had ceased to love her, and he thought, therefore, he
was justified in leaving her.'
Madge turned and fixed her eyes, unobserved, on Baruch. He was
looking straight at the bookshelves. There was not, and, indeed, how
could there be, any reference to herself.