But he said nothing about it to Portlaw or his wife.
Then, for another thing, the regeneration and development, ethically and artistically, of Dolly Wilming amused him.

He wanted to be near enough to watch it--without, however, any real faith in its continuation.
And, also, there was Miss Suydam.

Her development would not be quite as agreeable to witness; process of disillusioning her, little by little, until he had undermined himself sufficiently to make the final break with her very easy--for her.

Of course it interested him; all intrigue did where skill was required with women.
And, last of all, yet of supreme importance, he desired leisure, undisturbed, to study his own cumulative development, to humorously thwart it, or misunderstand it, or slyly aid it now and then--always aware of and attentive to that extraneous something which held him so motionless, at moments, listening attentively as though to a command.
For, from that morning four years ago when, crushed with fatigue, he strove to keep his vigil beside his father who, toward daybreak, had been feigning sleep--from that dreadful dawn when, waking with the crash of the shot in his ears, his blinded gaze beheld the passing of a soul--he understood that he was no longer his own master.
Not that the occult triad, Chance, Fate, and Destiny ruled; they only modified his orbit.

But from the centre of things Something that ruled them was pulling him toward it, slowly, steadily, inexorably drawing him nearer, lessening the circumference of his path, attenuating it, circumscribing, limiting, controlling.