At half-past two on the following afternoon he was waiting for the future in order to recommence living. During this period, to a greater extent even than the average individual in average circumstances, he was incapable¹ of living in the present. Continually he looked either forward or back. All that he had achieved, or that had been achieved for him—the new house with its brightness and its apparatus² of luxury, his books, his learning, his friends, his experience: not long since regarded by him as the precious materials of happiness—all had become negligible trifles, nothings, devoid³ of import. The sole condition precedent⁴ to a tolerable existence was now to have sight and speech of Hilda Lessways. He was intensely unhappy in the long stretches of time which separated one contact with her from the next. And in the brief moments of their companionship he was far too distraught, too apprehensive⁵, too desirous, too puzzled, to be able to call himself happy. Seeing her apparently⁶ did naught⁷ to assuage⁸ the pain of his curiosity about her—not his curiosity concerning the details of her life and of her person, for these scarcely interested him, but his curiosity concerning the very essence of her being. At seven o’clock on the previous day, he had esteemed¹⁰ her visit as possessing a decisive importance which covered the whole field of his wishes. The visit had occurred, and he was not a whit¹¹ advanced; indeed he had retrograded, for he was less content and more confused, and more

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