None of George’s theories had greatly taxed his imagination. He had not been in any habit of fancying himself in this or that situation--and when he did, it was always in some pleasant one of victory or recognition. Possible conditions of humanity other than pleasant, he had been content to regard from the outside, and come to logical conclusions concerning, without, as a German would say, thinking himself into them at all; and it would have been to do the very idea of George Bascombe a wrong to imagine him entangled in any such net of glowing wire as a crime against society! Therefore, although for most questions George had always an answer ready, for this he had none at hand, and required a moment, and but a moment, to think. “I would say to myself,” he replied, “‘What is done, is done, and is beyond my power to alter or help.’ And so I would be a man and bear it--not a weakling, and let it crush me. No, by Jove! it shouldn’t crush ME!” “Ah, but you haven’t tried the weight of it, George!” returned Leopold. “God forbid!” said George. “God forbid! indeed,” rejoined Leopold; “but there ‘tis done for all his forbidding!” “What’s done is done, God or devil, and must be borne, I say,” said Bascombe, stretching out his legs. He was aware it sounded heartless, but how could he help it? What else was there to be said? “But if you can’t bear it? If it is driving you mad--mad--mad? If you must do something or kill yourself?” cried Leopold. “You haven’t done your best at trying yet,” returned George. “But you are ill, and not very able to try, I daresay, and so we can’t help it. On Monday we shall go to Mr. Hooker, and see what he says to it.” He rose and went to get a book from the library. On the stair he met the butler: Mr. Wingfold had called to see Mr. Lingard. “He can’t see him to-day. He is too much exhausted,” said Bascombe; and the curate left the house thoughtful and sorry, feeling as if a vulture had settled by the side of the youth--a good-natured vulture, no doubt, but not the less one bent on picking out the eyes of his mind. He walked away along the street towards the church with down-bent head, seeing no one. He entered the churchyard, not looking whither he went: a lovely soul was in pain and peril, and he could not get near to help it. They were giving it choke-damp to breathe, instead of mountain-air. They were washing its sores with anodynes instead of laying them open with the knife of honesty, that they might be cleansed and healed. He found himself stumbling among the level gravestones, and stopped and sat down.