Yet, until
he had gone to the Groves', his restlessness had been trivial, hardly
more than academic, a half-smiling interest in a doll; but now, after
he had left the realm of fancy for an overt act, a full realization of
his implication was imperative. Without it he would be unable to
preserve any satisfactory life with Fanny at all; his uneasiness must
merely increase, become intolerable. Certainly there was a great, it
should be an inexhaustible, amount of happiness for him in his wife,
his children and his home; he would grow old and negative with them,
and there die.
But a lot of mental re-adjustment, understanding, was necessary first.
Suddenly the minor adventures and sensations of the past had become,
even before the completeness of the affair with Savina, insuperably
distasteful to him; he simply couldn't look forward to a procession of
them reaching to impotence. No, no, no! That was never Cytherea's
import. He didn't want to impoverish himself by the cheap flinging away
of small coin from his ultimate store. He didn't, equally, wish to keep
on exasperating Fanny in small ways. That pettiness was wholly to blame
for what discomfort he had had. His wife's claim was still greater on
him than any other's; and what, now, he couldn't give her must be made
up in different ways. This conviction invested him with a fresh sense
of dignity and an increasing regard for Fanny.
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