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He had discovered, too, one day--a fortnight or so ago, in the course of
a rummage after some article he had mislaid, a heap of law-books that
weren't his. He had guessed the explanation of them, but had said
nothing to Rose about it--had found it curiously impossible to say
anything. If only she had taken up something of her own! It seemed as
essentially a law of her being to attempt to absorb herself in him, as
it was a law of his to resist that absorption of himself in her.
But resistance was difficult. The tendency was, after his perfectly
solid, recognizable duties had been given their places in the cubic
content of his day, that Rose should fill up the rest. It was as if you
had a bucket half full of irregularly shaped stones and filled it up
with water. And yet there was a man in him who was neither the
hard-working, successful advocate, nor Rose's husband--a man whose
existence Rose didn't seem to suspect. (Was there then in her no woman
that corresponded to him?) That man had to fight now for a chance to
breathe.


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