He had always in his mind the agonies of the war, the sights of the trenches, the holocaust of young life, the drain on the national resources, the burden on the national future.

So that the Farrell motor-cars and men servants, the costly simplicity of the 'cottage,' Cicely's extravagance in dress, her absurd and expensive uniform, her make-up and her jewels, were so many daily provocations to a man thus sombrely possessed.
And yet--he had not been able so far to tear himself away from Carton! And he knew many things about Cicely Farrell that Nelly Sarratt had not discovered; things that alternately softened and enraged him; things that kept him now, as for some years past, provokingly, irrationally interested in her.

He had once proposed to her, and she had refused him.
That was known to a good many people.

But what their relations were now was a mystery to the friends on both sides.
Whatever they were, however, on this September afternoon Marsworth was coming rapidly to the conclusion that he had better put an end to them.
His latent feelings of resentment and irritation had been much sharpened of late by certain passages of arms between himself and Cicely--since she returned from her visits--with regard to that perfectly gentle and inoffensive little maiden, Miss Daisy Stewart, the Rector's granddaughter.

Miss Farrell had several times been unpardonably rude to the poor child in his presence, and, as it seemed to him, with the express object of showing him how little she cared to keep on friendly terms with him.
Nevertheless--he found himself puzzling over certain other incidents in his recent ken, of a different character.