Then it was love!"

He spoke the word baldly, looking away from the Parson. "Then it was
love!" he repeated; "and now it's just emptiness, a sort of going on
blindly from day to day. It's as though one were pressing through dark
water instead of air, and one could only struggle on and let it go over
one's head and hope that some time one will come out the other side."

"Don't forget," said Boase gently, "that no one can see a pattern when
he is in the middle of it. It all seems confused and without scheme
while we are living in the midst of it; it's only on looking back that
we see it fall into shape."

"And does it, always?"

"I firmly believe so. It rests with us to make it as beautiful a pattern
as possible, but a pattern it is bound to make. And a terribly
inevitable one, each curve leading to the next, as though we were
spiders, spinning our web out of ourselves as we go...."

"I suppose so," said Ishmael listlessly. Boase looked at him keenly. He
could hardly believe that Cloom meant nothing to Ishmael; he was certain
that there balm must eventually be found. He glanced out of the window,
and saw that the rain had left off and a still pallor held the air.

"Come out for a turn with me," he suggested. "I haven't seen you go
beyond the fields for ages. Your mother'll be all right now."

Ishmael hesitated, then picked up a stick, and went out with the Parson.
Boase had wondered much how deeply Ishmael had been hurt by the