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Possibly he had been drifting without knowing it towards some nameless
folly. He was not sure. To-night he felt uncertain of himself and of
everything, almost like an ignorant child facing the world. And he
felt almost afraid of himself. Was it possible that he, holding within
him so much of the knowledge, so much of pride, could ever draw near
to a crazy absurdity, a thing that the whole world would laugh at and
despise? Had he drawn near to it. Was he near it now?
He thought of all his recent intercourse with Vere, going back
mentally to the day in spring when he arrived in Naples. He followed
the record day by day until he reached that afternoon when he had
returned from Paris, when he came to the island to find Vere alone,
when she read to him her poems. Very pitilessly, despite the
excitement still raging within him, he examined that day, that night,
recalling every incident, recalling every feeling the incidents of
those hours had elicited from his heart. He remembered how vexed he
had been when Hermione told him of the engagement for the evening.


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