Life was unutterably and intensely
selfish. Every little unit in that seething mass was so entirely, so
strangely self-centered. None of them had any real love or friendliness
for the millions who toiled around them, no one seemed to have time to
take his eyes from his own work and his own interests. Burton became
more and more depressed as the days passed. Then he closed his eyes and
tried an antidote. He abandoned this study of his fellow-creatures and
plunged once more into the museums, sated himself with the eternal
beauties, and came out to resume his place amid the tumultuous throng
with rested nerves and a beatific smile upon his lips. It mattered so
little, his welfare of to-day or to-morrow--whether he went hungry or
satisfied to bed! The other things were in his heart. He saw the
truth.
One day he met his late employer. Mr. Waddington was not, in his way,
an ill-natured man, and he stopped short upon the pavement. Burton's
new suit was not wearing well. It showed signs of exposure to the
weather. The young man himself was thin and pale. It was not for Mr.
Waddington to appreciate the soft brilliance of his eyes, the altered
curves of his lips. From his intensely practical point of view, his
late employee was certainly in low water.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67