He was sorry--he would have liked to tell her so.

And yet somehow her very weakness and sweetness, her delicate uncomplainingness seemed only to develope his own small egotisms and pugnacities.
* * * * * That night--a night of rain and scirocco--Eleanor wrote in her journal--'Will he ever finish the book?
Very possibly it has been all a mistake.

Yet when he began it, he was in the depths.

Whatever happens, it has been his salvation.
'-- Surely he will finish it?
He cannot forego the effect he is almost sure it will produce.

But he will finish it with impatience and disgust; he is out of love with it and all its associations.