"I am rather a desultory sort of person," she had said to him, and he had offered to make out a list of books for her to read.
He had done so, and she had thanked him very sweetly, and had sent for some of the books, but he had never seen her read them.

Perhaps Carlyon--and at this thought he ground his teeth hard--perhaps Carlyon had discouraged her.

Horticulture seemed his chief hobby, and he was always talking to her about a new fern-house they were making at the Wood House, and Malcolm's poor books were neglected.
He flung himself down on the heather.

He would battle it out with himself, he thought, and when he was in a quieter frame of mind he would go home.

Home, pooh! he would never have a home now! It was a glorious evening.