"There is the ego," he confessed, his voice shaking. "Why it has come
to me just at this period of life--but there it is. I have neglected
human society, human intercourse, sport, pleasures, the joys of a man
who was born to be a man. I am philosopher enough not to ask myself
whether it has been worth while, but I do ask myself--what of the next
ten years?"
"Who am I to give you counsel?" she asked, trembling.
"The only person who can."
"Then I advise you to go on. This is just a mood. There are muddy
places through which one must pass, even in the paths that lead to the
mountain tops, muddy and ugly and depressing places. As one climbs, one
loses the memory of them."
"But I climb always alone," he answered, with a sudden fierceness. "I
walk alone in life. I have been strong enough to do it and I am strong
enough no longer.--Jane," he went on, his voice a little unsteady, his
hands almost clutching hers, "it is only since I have known you that I
have realised from what source upon this earth a man may draw his
inspiration, his courage, the strength to face the moving of mountains,
day by day.
Pages:
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362