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But
the
effort
of
fixing
his
attention
on
Owen
’
s
words
was
so
great
that
it
left
no
power
for
more
than
the
briefest
and
most
inexpressive
replies
.
Young
Leath
,
it
appeared
,
felt
that
he
had
reached
a
turning
-
point
in
his
career
,
a
height
from
which
he
could
impartially
survey
his
past
progress
and
projected
endeavour
.
At
one
time
he
had
had
musical
and
literary
yearnings
,
visions
of
desultory
artistic
indulgence
;
but
these
had
of
late
been
superseded
by
the
resolute
determination
to
plunge
into
practical
life
.
“
I
don
’
t
want
,
you
see
,
”
Darrow
heard
him
explaining
,
“
to
drift
into
what
my
grandmother
,
poor
dear
,
is
trying
to
make
of
me
:
an
adjunct
of
Givre
.
I
don
’
t
want
—
hang
it
all
!
—
to
slip
into
collecting
sensations
as
my
father
collected
snuff
-
boxes
.
I
want
Effie
to
have
Givre
—
it
’
s
my
grandmother
’
s
,
you
know
,
to
do
as
she
likes
with
;
and
I
’
ve
understood
lately
that
if
it
belonged
to
me
it
would
gradually
gobble
me
up
.
I
want
to
get
out
of
it
,
into
a
life
that
’
s
big
and
ugly
and
struggling
.
If
I
can
extract
beauty
out
of
that
,
so
much
the
better
:
that
’
ll
prove
my
vocation
.
But
I
want
to
make
beauty
,
not
be
drowned
in
the
ready
-
made
,
like
a
bee
in
a
pot
of
honey
.
”
Darrow
knew
that
he
was
being
appealed
to
for
corroboration
of
these
views
and
for
encouragement
in
the
course
to
which
they
pointed
.
To
his
own
ears
his
answers
sounded
now
curt
,
now
irrelevant
:
at
one
moment
he
seemed
chillingly
indifferent
,
at
another
he
heard
himself
launching
out
on
a
flood
of
hazy
discursiveness
.
He
dared
not
look
at
Owen
,
for
fear
of
detecting
the
lad
’
s
surprise
at
these
senseless
transitions
.
And
through
the
confusion
of
his
inward
struggles
and
outward
loquacity
he
heard
the
ceaseless
trip
-
hammer
beat
of
the
question
:
“
What
in
God
’
s
name
shall
I
do
?
”
.
.
.
To
get
back
to
the
house
before
Anna
’
s
return
seemed
his
most
pressing
necessity
.
He
did
not
clearly
know
why
:
he
simply
felt
that
he
ought
to
be
there
.
At
one
moment
it
occurred
to
him
that
Miss
Viner
might
want
to
speak
to
him
alone
—
and
again
,
in
the
same
flash
,
that
it
would
probably
be
the
last
thing
she
would
want
.
.
.
.
At
any
rate
,
he
felt
he
ought
to
try
to
speak
to
her
;
or
at
least
be
prepared
to
do
so
,
if
the
chance
should
occur
.
.
.
Finally
,
toward
four
,
he
told
his
companion
that
he
had
some
letters
on
his
mind
and
must
get
back
to
the
house
and
despatch
them
before
the
ladies
returned
.
He
left
Owen
with
the
beater
and
walked
on
to
the
edge
of
the
covert
.
At
the
park
gates
he
struck
obliquely
through
the
trees
,
following
a
grass
avenue
at
the
end
of
which
he
had
caught
a
glimpse
of
the
roof
of
the
chapel
.
A
grey
haze
had
blotted
out
the
sun
and
the
still
air
clung
about
him
tepidly
.
At
length
the
house
-
front
raised
before
him
its
expanse
of
damp
-
silvered
brick
,
and
he
was
struck
afresh
by
the
high
decorum
of
its
calm
lines
and
soberly
massed
surfaces
.
It
made
him
feel
,
in
the
turbid
coil
of
his
fears
and
passions
,
like
a
muddy
tramp
forcing
his
way
into
some
pure
sequestered
shrine
.
.
.
By
and
bye
,
he
knew
,
he
should
have
to
think
the
complex
horror
out
,
slowly
,
systematically
,
bit
by
bit
;
but
for
the
moment
it
was
whirling
him
about
so
fast
that
he
could
just
clutch
at
its
sharp
spikes
and
be
tossed
off
again
.
Only
one
definite
immediate
fact
stuck
in
his
quivering
grasp
.
He
must
give
the
girl
every
chance
—
must
hold
himself
passive
till
she
had
taken
them
.
.
.
In
the
court
Effie
ran
up
to
him
with
her
leaping
terrier
.
