During the war, amid the absorption of his work, and the fierce pressure of the national need, he had been quite content to forget her.

His work--and England's strait--had filled his mind and his time.

Except for certain dull resentments and regrets, present at all times in the background of consciousness, the four years of the war had been to him a period of relief, almost of deliverance.

He had been able to lose himself; and in that inner history of the soul which is the real history of each one of us, that had been for long years impossible.
But now all that protection and help was gone; the floodgates were loosened again.

His work still went on; but it was no longer absorbing; it no longer mattered enough to hold in check the vague impulses and passions that were beating against his will.
And meanwhile the years were running on.