One evening in November
1816, Zachariah was walking home to his lodgings. A special meeting
of the club had been called for the following Sunday to consider a
proposal made for a march of the unemployed upon London. Three
persons passed him--two men and a woman--who turned round and looked
at him and then went on. He did not recognise them, but he noticed
that they stopped opposite a window, and as he came up they looked at
him again. He could not be mistaken; they were the Major, Caillaud,
and his daughter. The most joyous recognition followed, and
Zachariah insisted on their going home with him. It often happens
that we become increasingly intimate with one another even when we
are shut out from all intercourse. Zachariah had not seen the Major
nor Caillaud nor Pauline for two years, and not a single thought had
been interchanged. Nevertheless he was much nearer and dearer to
them than he was before. He had unconsciously moved on a line
rapidly sweeping round into parallelism with theirs. The
relationship between himself and his wife during those two years had
become, not openly hostile, it is true, but it was neutral. Long ago
he had given up the habit of talking to her about politics, the thing
which lay nearest to his heart just then.
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