He saw himself sitting beside the
fireplace poring over one of Doris Cleveland's books. And he was no
longer lonely, because he was not alone.
He smiled at himself, remembering this fantasy of the subconscious
mind, when the steward's rap at the door wakened him half an hour
before the steamer docked.
CHAPTER VIII
Quartered once more in the city he had abandoned two months earlier,
Hollister found himself in the grip of new desires, stirred by new
plans, his mind yielding slowly to the conviction that life was less
barren than it seemed. Or was that, he asked himself doubtfully, just
another illusion which would uphold him for awhile and then perish?
Not so many weeks since, a matter of days almost, life, so far as he
was concerned, held nothing, promised nothing. All the future years
through which he must live because of the virility of his body seemed
nothing but a dismal fog in which he must wander without knowing where
he went or what lay before him.
Now it seemed that he had mysteriously acquired a starting point and a
goal.
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