When he had lighted the lamp in his sitting-room, he let himself drop into an armchair before the empty fireplace.  He was tired, he was exhausted.  Yet nothing had happened to tire him.  He had dined, as he always dined on Sundays, with the Rodericks, in Cheyne Walk; he had driven home in a hansom.  There was no reason why he should be tired.  But he was tired.  A deadly lassitude penetrated his body and his spirit, like a fluid.  He was too tired to go to bed.

‘I suppose I am getting old,’ he thought.

To a second person the matter would have appeared not one of supposition but of certainty, not of progression but of accomplishment.  Getting old indeed?  But he was old.  It was an old man, grey and wrinkled and wasted, who sat there, limp, sunken upon himself, in his easy-chair.  In years, to be sure, he was under sixty; but he looked like a man of seventy-five.

‘I am getting old, I suppose I am getting old.’

And vaguely, dully, he contemplated his life, spread out behind him like a misty landscape, and thought what a failure it had been.  What had it come to?  What had it brought him?  What had he done or won?  Nothing, nothing.  It had brought him nothing but old age, solitude, disappointment, and, to-night especially, a sense of fatigue and apathy that weighed upon him like a suffocating blanket.  On a table, a yard or two away, stood a decanter of whisky, with some soda-water bottles and tumblers; he looked at it with heavy eyes, and he knew that there was what he needed.  A little whisky would strengthen him, revive him, and make it possible for him to bestir himself and undress and go to bed.  But when he thought of rising and moving to pour the whisky out, he shrank from that effort as from an Herculean labour; no—­he was too tired.  Then his mind went back to the friends he had left in Chelsea half an hour ago; it seemed an indefinably long time ago, years and years ago; they were like blurred phantoms, dimly remembered from a remote past.

Yes, his life had been a failure; total, miserable, abject.  It had come to nothing; its harvest was a harvest of ashes.  If it had been a useful life, he could have accepted its unhappiness; if it had been a happy life, he could have forgiven its uselessness; but it had been both useless and unhappy.  He had done nothing for others, he had won nothing for himself.  Oh, but he had tried, he had tried.  When he had left Oxford people expected great things of him; he had expected great things of himself.  He was admitted to be clever, to be gifted; he was ambitious, he was in earnest.  He wished to make a name, he wished to justify his existence by fruitful work.  And he had worked hard.  He had put all his knowledge, all his talent, all his energy, into his work; he had not spared himself; he had passed laborious days and studious nights.  And what remained to show for it?  Three or four volumes upon Political Economy, that had been read in their day a little, discussed a little, and then quite forgotten—­superseded by the books of newer men.  ‘Pulped, pulped,’ he reflected bitterly.  Except for a stray dozen of copies scattered here and there—­in the British Museum, in his College library, on his own bookshelves—­his published writings had by this time (he could not doubt) met with the common fate of unappreciated literature, and been ‘pulped.’