Lettice was so young, he realized suddenly.

He recalled her as she sat alone, under the lamp,
with her shawl about her shuddering shoulders, waiting
for the inevitable, begging him to assure her that
it would be all right. It would, of course, be all
right in the end. It must! Then things would be
different. He made himself no extravagant promises
of reform, no fevered reproaches; but things
would be different. -- He would take Lettice driving;
he had the prettiest young wife in Greenstream, and
he would show people that he realized it. She had
been Lettice Hollidew, the daughter of old Pompey,
the richest man in the county.

The importance of that latter fact had dimmed;
the omnipotence of money had dwindled: for instance,
any conceivable sum would be powerless to
still that cry from within. In a way it had risen
from the very fact of Pompey Hollidew's fortune --
Meta Beggs would never have considered him aside
from it. He endeavored to curse the old man's
successful avarice, but without any satisfaction.
Every cause contributing to the present impending
catastrophe led directly back to himself, to his indecision.
The responsibility, closing about him,
seemed to shut out the air from his vicinity, to make
labored his breathing. He put out a hand, as
though to ward off the inimical forces everywhere
pressing upon him. He had seen suffering before

[[266]]

p265 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p266w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p267

v?