seek, but who have quietly travelled a definite, known path. Those are the people who, when they are my age, are in the prime of life. I am not: I have sought; I have never found. I now feel all the sadness of my wasted efforts; I now feel . . . old. I feel old. What more can I do now? Think a little more; try to keep abreast of modern thought and modern conditions; seek a little, like a blind man. And," with a bitter laugh, "I have even lost that right: the right to seek. You seek only when you are very young, or else it becomes absurd."
"You are echoing me," she said, in gentle reproach.
"But you were right, you were right. It is so. There is nothing left, at our age; not even our memories . . ."
"Our memories," she murmured, very softly.
"The memories of our childhood . . ."
"Of our childhood," she repeated.
"Not even that."
"Not even that," she repeated, as though hypnotized.
"No, there is nothing left . . . for us . . ."
The door opened suddenly: they started.
"Mamma, are you there?"
It was Addie.
"Yes, my boy . . ."
"I can't see you. It is quite dark."
"And here is Mr. Brauws."
