When Semple at last took his leave,
they shook hands with the deep-eyed earnestness of comrades
who have been through battle and faced death together.
It was not until Thorpe stood alone that the full realizing
sense of what the day meant seemed to come to him.
Fruition was finally complete: the last winnowing
of the great harvest had been added to the pile.
Positively nothing remained for him but to enter and enjoy!
He found it curiously difficult to grasp the thought
in its entirety. He stood the master of unlimited leisure
for the rest of his life, and of power to enrich that life
with everything that money could buy,--but there was
an odd inability to feel about it as he knew he ought to feel.
Somehow, for some unaccountable reason, an absurd
depression hovered about over his mind, darkening it
with formless shadows. It was as if he were sorry
that the work was all finished--that there was nothing
more for him to do. But that was too foolish,
and he tried to thrust it from him. He said with angry
decision to himself that he had never liked the work;
that it had all been unpleasant and grinding drudgery,
tolerable only as a means to an end; that now this end
had been reached, he wanted never to lay eyes on the City again.
Let him dwell instead upon the things he did want to lay
eyes upon.
Pages:
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409