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VII. The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends

           IamquitesurethatifImakealittleadvanceMotherwillbewillingtoforgetall.ItwillberatherlatebeforeIcangethome,asIshallnotbeabletodothedistanceeitherwayinlessthananhourandahalf.Butyouwillnotmindforoneevening,dear?Whatareyouthinkingoftomakeyoulooksoabstracted?”

           “Icannottellyou,”shesaidheavily.“Iwishwedidn’tlivehere,Clym.Theworldseemsallwronginthisplace.”

           “Well—ifwemakeitso.IwonderifThomasinhasbeentoBlooms-Endlately.Ihopeso.Butprobablynot,assheis,Ibelieve,expectingtobeconfinedinamonthorso.IwishIhadthoughtofthatbefore.PoorMothermustindeedbeverylonely.”

           “Idon’tlikeyougoingtonight.”

           “Whynottonight?”

           “Somethingmaybesaidwhichwillterriblyinjureme.”

           “Mymotherisnotvindictive,”saidClym,hiscolourfaintlyrising.

           “ButIwishyouwouldnotgo,”Eustaciarepeatedinalowtone.“IfyouagreenottogotonightIpromisetogobymyselftoherhousetomorrow,andmakeitupwithher,andwaittillyoufetchme.”

           “Whydoyouwanttodothatatthisparticulartime,whenateveryprevioustimethatIhaveproposedityouhaverefused?”

           “IcannotexplainfurtherthanthatIshouldliketoseeheralonebeforeyougo,”sheanswered,withanimpatientmoveofherhead,andlookingathimwithananxietymorefrequentlyseenuponthoseofasanguinetemperamentthanuponsuchasherself.

           “Well,itisveryoddthatjustwhenIhaddecidedtogomyselfyoushouldwanttodowhatIproposedlongago.

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