Once--and not very long since--he had persuaded himself that there had
been a chance for him to have such a home, and live in it--_not_ alone.
That chance had gone--had never really existed, he knew now. For sooner
or later he must have awakened from the pleasant dreams of
self-persuasion to the reality of his relentless responsibility. No,
there had never been such a chance; and he thanked God that he had
learned before it was too late that for him there could be no earthly
paradise, no fireside _a deux_, no home, no hope of it.
As long as Alixe lived his spiritual responsibility must endure. And
they had just told him that she might easily outlive them all.
He turned heavily in his chair and stared at the fire. Perhaps he saw
infernal visions in the flames; perhaps the blaze meant nothing more to
him than an example of chemical reaction, for his face was set and
colourless and vacant, and his hands lay loosely along the padded arms
of his easy-chair.
The hardest lesson he had to learn in these days was to avoid thinking.
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