There, then, lay the sting of it. He had now time and to spare. He had now both loneliness, and, on the other hand, the company of beauty both within and without doors. He had, in the well-trained servants of the house and estate, the very best of human help towards that respect and leisure and comfort that our rather pitiable souls do need. He had Prideaux at the Vicarage, the best of fellows, for a companionable pipe and chat, and he had Mrs. Manning and Miss Netterly, her sister, only too ready to give him tea in their drawing-room and be kind. The disturbing element was wholly withdrawn. Ursula had gone to London on a whim of her own in August, and on an ill-defined visit thereafter, and had at last returned so absorbed in a picture perhaps, so possibly deliberately remote, that, if he saw her, it was only to pass the time of day, or watch her face immobile as he rested in the evening in her mother's drawing-room. In despair, he had abandoned the attempt to write for one to read. The possibility of reading had been one of the attractions of Fordham. At Claxted he had done but little more than learn the names of classical English authors, at Cambridge but snatched odd moments for them. He was peculiarly unfamiliar with the work of the great poets and he had soaked himself in none of the moderns. He had longed so eagerly for the chance really to read Swinburne, Francis Thompson and the like, and now that it had come he could not. The malignancy of his own particular devil followed him even in this. He would walk to Storrington and tramp back over the Downs to curl himself up in the lounge with the _Hound of Heaven_ in his hands, only to find his eyes wandering from the page and his feet stirring restlessly towards the gardens where old Timothy would be pottering about. Not, of course, that old Timothy helped at all, and he would perhaps take a hand with a spade or listen to a discourse on manners for half an hour or so, and then turn unsatisfied to the towering strength of the animophilous lime-trees in the avenue and the quiet assurance of the sleeping water in the lake. Old Timothy would look after him and shake his head. He had small opinion of strapping young men who could not dig for a morning and be thankful. (2) Half-way through October Paul came near to the climax. A morning unusually wretched had led to an afternoon's honest endeavour with the foresters in the park, and he had returned to bath and change with a more comfortable feeling in his heart and pleasurably tired muscles. But even as he dressed, the shadows crept in again. He came down the wide stairs to the hall slowly, a haunted man. Its very quiet and peace and air of waiting kindly readiness to help, exasperated him. A friendly touch, where one looks for love, is worse than indifference to a lover. And brooding there, he had determined to write to Tressor and tell him that the experiment was a failure and that he must leave.