This evening he actually jumped onto the dinner-table, looked at me out of his one eye, in which all the desolation of two was concentrated, and miaowed heart-rendingly in my face.

Something is wrong with the house, with my pens which will not write, with my books which have the air of dry bones in a charnel-house, with the MS.

of my History of Renaissance Morals, which stands on the writing-table like a dusty monument to the futility of human endeavour.

Something is wrong with me.
Something, too, is wrong with Judith, who has just returned from her stay with the Willoughbys.

I have been to see her this evening and found her of uncertain temper, and inclined to be contradictious.