I seldom read the newspapers.  I had an idea, like an eminent personage of the period, that a sort of war was going on, but it failed to interest me greatly.  I shrank from the noise of it.

“Monsieur,” said Antoinette, “will get ill if he does not go out into the sunshine.”

“Monsieur,” said I, “regards the sunshine as an impertinent intrusion into a soul that loves the twilight.”

If I had made the same remark to an Englishwoman, she would have pitied me for a poor, half-witted gentleman.  But Antoinette has her nation’s instinctive appreciation of soul-states, and her sympathy was none the less comprehending when she shook her head mournfully and said that it was bad for the stomach.

“My good Antoinette,” I remarked, harking back in my mind to a speculation of other days, “if you go on worrying me in this manner about my stomach, I will build a tower forty feet high in the back garden, and live on top, and have my meals sent up by a lift, and never come down again.”

“Monsieur might as well be in Paradise,” said Antoinette.

“Ah,” said I. And I thought of the bottle of prussic acid with mingled sentiments.

All through these many months I had Judith dwelling, a pale ghost, in the back of my mind.  We had parted so finally that correspondence between us had seemed impertinent.  But although I had not written to her, no small part of the infinite sadness that had fallen upon my life was the shadow of her destiny.  Sweet, wine-loving Judith!  How many times did I picture her sitting pinched and wistful in the little tin mission church at Hoxton!  Had I, Marcus Ordeyne, condemned her to that penitentiary?  Who can hold the balance of morals so truly as to decide?

At last I received a letter from her on the anniversary of our parting.  She had found salvation in a strange thing which she called duty.  “I am fulfilling an appointed task,” she wrote, “and the measure of my success is the measure of my happiness.  I am bringing consolation to a wayward and tormented spirit.  A year has swept aside the petty feminine vanities, the opera-glasses, so to speak, through which a woman complacently views her influence over a man, and it has cleared my vision.  A year has proved beyond mortal question that without me this wayward and tormented spirit would fail.  I hold in my hands the very soul of a man.  What more dare a woman ask of the high gods?  You see I use your metaphors still.  Dearest of all dear friends, do not pity me.  Beyond all the fires of love through which one passes there is the star of Duty, and happy the individual who can live in its serenity,”

This was astonishingly like the Theory of Life which I set out from Verona to seek, and which had hitherto eluded me.  It was not very new, or subtle, or inspiring.  But that is the way of things.  No matter through what realms of the fantastic you may travel, you arrive inevitably at the commonplace.