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. It put a girdle round the
earth while he was going from New York
to Moorlock. At this moment, it was tingling
through him, exultant, and live as quicksilver,
whispering, "In July you will be in England."
Already he dreaded the long, empty days at sea,
the monotonous Irish coast, the sluggish
passage up the Mersey, the flash of the
boat train through the summer country.
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