In those days his
natural gravity was often cut through by a mood of high spirits, of
boyish jollity, which, if only by way of contrast, rendered him a
delightful companion. She grew a little wistful, as she sat comparing
present with past. And loath though she was to dig deep, for fear of
stirring up uncomfortable things, she could not escape the discovery
that, in spite of all his success--and his career there had surpassed
their dearest hopes--in spite of the natural gifts fortune had showered
on him, Richard was not what you would call a happy man. No, nor even
moderately happy. Why this should be, it went beyond her to say. He had
everything he could wish for: yes, everything, except perhaps a little
more time to himself, and better health. He was not as strong as she
would have liked to see him. Nothing radically wrong, of course, but
enough to fidget him. Might not this . . . this--he himself called it
"want of tone"--be a reason for the scant pleasure he got out of life?
And: "I think I'll pop down and see Dr. Munce about him one morning,
without a word to him," was how she eased her mind and wound up her
reverie.
But daylight, and the most prosaic hours of the twenty-four, made the
plan look absurd.
Once alive though to his condition, she felt deeply sorry for him in his
patent inability ever to be content. It was a thousand pities. Things
might have run so smoothly for him, he have got so much satisfaction out
of them, if only he could have braced himself to regard life in cheerier
fashion.
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