Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and was soon landed at the Wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and losing lives at pool. But he would not leave off. He was determined not to think - not to admit any more distinct remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetual presence of Maggie. He was looking at her and she was on his arm.

But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight: and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, and bitterly determining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again. It was all madness: he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, and engaged - engaged as strongly as an honourable man need be. He wished he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by her in this way: she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome, adorable wife to some man or other - but he would never have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did - not. He ought not to have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to her - quarrel with her perhaps. - Quarrel with her? Was it possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes - defying and deprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching - full of delicious opposites. To see such a creature subdued by love for one would be a lot worth having - to another man.

There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his hands into his pockets stalked along at a quieter pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind.