But gradually on the river of recollection all the incidents of the morning flow through my mind.

In more startling relief than ever, the astounding change in Roger, wrought by those ill-starred two hours, stands out.

Is it possible that I may have been attributing it to a wrong cause?
Doubtless, the first interview with the woman he had loved, and who had thrown him over (by-the-by, how forgiving men are!)--yes, the first, probably, since they had stood in the relation of betrothed people to each other--must have been full of pain.

Doubtless, the contrast between the crude gawkiness of the raw girl he has drifted into marrying--for I suppose it was more accident than any thing else--with the mature and subtile grace, the fine and low-voiced sweetness of the woman whom his whole heart and soul and taste chose and approved, must have struck him with keen force.

I expected _that_: it would not have taken me by surprise.
If he had emerged from among the laurestines, depressed, and vainly struggling for a factitious cheerfulness, I think I could have understood it.