From now on, the better part of his life
would be a closed book to any but himself; there were allusions, jests
without number, homely turns of speech, which not a soul but himself
would understand. The thought of it made him feel old and empty;
affected him like the news of a death.--But MUST it be? Was there no
other way out? Slow to take hold, he was a hundred times slower to let
go. Before now he had seen himself sticking by a person through
misunderstandings, ingratitude, deception, to the blank wonder of the
onlookers. Would he not be ready here, too, to forgive . . . to forget?
But he felt hot, hot to suffocation, and his heart was pounding in
uncomfortable fashion. The idea of stripping and plunging into ice-cold
water began to make a delicious appeal to him. Nothing surpassed such a
plunge after a broken night. But of late he had had to be wary of
indulging: a bath of this kind, taken when he was over-tired, was apt to
set the accursed tic a-going; and then he could pace the floor in agony.
And yet. . . Good God, how hot it was! His head ached distractedly; an
iron band of pain seemed to encircle it. With a sudden start of alarm he
noticed that he had ceased to perspire--now he came to think of it, not
even the wild gallop had induced perspiration. Pulling up short, he
fingered his pulse. It was abnormal, even for him . . . and feeble. Was
it fancy, or did he really find a difficulty in breathing? He tore off
his collar, threw open the neck of his shirt.
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