Had he any right to complain?
Not the shadow of a right.
As the newspapers said, he had deserved it.
The clock roused him, striking the hour.
He rose hurriedly, and advanced toward the window.

As he crossed the room, he passed by a mirror.

His own sullen despair looked at him in the reflection of his face.

"She will be back directly," he remembered; "she mustn't see me like this!" He went on to the window to divert his mind (and so to clear his face) by watching the stream of life flowing by in the busy street.

Artificial cheerfulness, assumed love in Sydney's presence--that was what his life had come to already.
If he had known that she had gone out, seeking a temporary separation, with _his_ fear of self-betrayal--if he had suspected that she, too, had thoughts which must be concealed: sad forebodings of losing her hold on his heart, terrifying suspicions that he was already comparing her, to her own disadvantage, with the wife whom he had deserted--if he had made these discoveries, what would the end have been?
But she had, thus far, escaped the danger of exciting his distrust.