Pondering these great words, Ferrier strolled homeward, while the outpouring of the evening splendor died from Perusia Augusta, and the mountains sank deeper into the gold and purple of the twilight.

As for love, he had missed it long ago.  But existence was still rich, still full of savor, so long as a man’s will held his grip on men and circumstance.

All action, he thought, is the climbing of a precipice, upheld above infinity by one slender sustaining rope.  Call it what we like—­will, faith, ambition, the wish to live—­in the end it fails us all.  And in that moment, when we begin to imagine how and when it may fail us, we hear, across the sea of time, the first phantom tolling of the funeral bell.

There were times now when he seemed to feel the cold approaching breath of such a moment.  But they were still invariably succeeded by a passionate recoil of life and energy.  By the time he reached the hotel he was once more plunged in all the preoccupations, the schemes, the pugnacities of the party leader.

* * * * *

A month later, on an evening toward the end of June, Dr. Roughsedge, lying reading in the shade of his little garden, saw his wife approaching.  He raised himself with alacrity.

“You’ve seen her?”

“Yes.”

With this monosyllabic answer Mrs. Roughsedge seated herself, and slowly untied her bonnet-strings.

“My dear, you seem discomposed.”

“I hate men!” said Mrs. Roughsedge, vehemently.

The doctor raised his eyebrows.  “I apologize for my existence.  But you might go so far as to explain.”

Mrs. Roughsedge was silent.

“How is that child?” said the doctor, abruptly.  “Come!—­I am as fond of her as you are.”

Mrs. Roughsedge raised her handkerchief.

“That any man with a heart—­” she began, in a stifled voice.

“Why you should speculate on anything so abnormal!” cried the doctor, impatiently.  “I suppose your remark applies to Oliver Marsham.  Is she breaking her own heart?—­that’s all that signifies.”

“She is extremely well and cheerful.”

“Well, then, what’s the matter?”

Mrs. Roughsedge looked out of the window, twisting her handkerchief.

“Nothing—­only—­everything seems done and finished.”

“At twenty-two?” The doctor laughed, “And it’s not quite four months yet since the poor thing discovered that her doll was stuffed with sawdust.  Really, Patricia!”

Mrs. Roughsedge slowly shook her head.

“I suspect what it all means,” said her husband, “is that she did not show as much interest as she ought in Hugh’s performance.”

“She was most kind, and asked me endless questions.  She made me promise to bring her the press-cuttings and read her his letters.  She could not possibly have shown more sympathy.”

“H’m!—­well, I give it up.”