I remember that, as he read the description of Lynwood and his wife, I kept looking from him to the Christ in the picture till I could almost have fancied that each face bore the same expression.

Had this strange monotonous life with that old brute of a Major brought him some new perception of those words, "Neither do I condemn thee"?
But when he stopped reading, I, true to my character, forgot his affairs in my own, as we sat talking far into the night--talking of that luckless month at Mondisfield, of all the problems it had opened up, and of my wretchedness.
"You were in town all September ?" he asked; "you gave up Blachington ?" "Yes," I replied.

"What did I care for country houses in such a mood as that." He acquiesced, and I went on talking of my grievances, and it was not till I was in the train on my way back to London that I remembered how a look of disappointment had passed over his face just at the moment.
Evidently he had counted on learning something about Freda from me, and I--well, I had clean forgotten both her existence and his passionate love.
Something, probably self-interest, the desire for my friend's company, and so forth, took me down to Bath pretty frequently in those days; luckily the Major had a sort of liking for me, and was always polite enough; and dear old Derrick--well, I believe my visits really helped to brighten him up.

At any rate he said he couldn't have borne his life without them, and for a sceptical, dismal, cynical fellow like me to hear that was somehow flattering.

The mere force of contrast did me good.