And this, then, was to be the disaster that his old professor had
foreseen for him: the crack in the wall, the crash, the cloud of dust.
And he could not understand how it had come about. He felt that he
himself was unchanged, that he was still there, the same man he had been
five years ago, and that he was sitting stupidly by and letting some
resolute offshoot of himself spoil his life for him. This new force was
not he, it was but a part of him. He would not even admit that it was
stronger than he; but it was more active. It was by its energy that this
new feeling got the better of him. His wife was the woman who had made
his life, gratified his pride, given direction to his tastes and habits.
The life they led together seemed to him beautiful. Winifred still was,
as she had always been, Romance for him, and whenever he was deeply
stirred he turned to her. When the grandeur and beauty of the world
challenged him--as it challenges even the most self-absorbed people--he
always answered with her name. That was his reply to the question put
by the mountains and the stars; to all the spiritual aspects of life.
In his feeling for his wife there was all the tenderness, all the pride,
all the devotion of which he was capable. There was everything but
energy; the energy of youth which must register itself and cut its name
before it passes. This new feeling was so fresh, so unsatisfied and
light of foot. It ran and was not wearied, anticipated him everywhere.
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