He lost his guiding interests, and found himself returning to those of boyhood.

The country once more attracted him; he took out his old sketch-books, bought a new one, revived the regret that he could not be a painter of landscape.

A visit to one or two picture-galleries, and then again profound discouragement, recognition of the fact that he was a mechanic and never could be anything else.
It was the end of his illusions.

For him not even passionate love was to preserve the power of idealising its object.

He loved Clara with all the desire of his being, but could no longer deceive himself in judging her character.