"
"The worst of it is," said Piers, "that they're right as regards
most men. Beauty, as an inspiration, exists only for the few. Beauty
of any and every kind--it's all the same. There's no safety for
the world as we know it, except in utilitarian morals."
Later, when he looked back upon these winter months, Piers could
distinguish nothing clearly. It was a time of confused and obscure
motives, of oscillation, of dreary conflict, of dull suffering. His
correspondence with Olga, his meetings with her, had no issue. He
made a thousand resolves; a thousand times he lost them. But for the
day's work, which kept him in an even tenor for a certain number of
hours, he must have drifted far and perilously.
It was a life of solitude. The people with whom he talked were mere
ghosts, intangible, not of his world. Sometimes, amid a crowd of
human beings, he was stricken voiceless and motionless: he stared
about him, and was bewildered, asking himself what it all meant.
His health was not good; he suffered much from headaches; he fell
into languors, lassitude of body and soul. As a result, imagination
seemed to be dead in him. The torments of desire were forgotten.
When he beard that Irene Derwent had returned to London, the news
affected him only with a sort of weary curiosity. Was it true that
she would not marry Arnold Jacks? It seemed so. He puzzled over the
story, wondered about it; but only his mind was concerned, never his
emotions.
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