murmur of protest: “To save what, when all the good of life is gone?”
To distract her thoughts she stretched her hand toward the book-case, taking out the first volume in reach—the little copy of Bacon. She leaned back, fluttering its pages aimlessly—so wrapped in her own misery that the meaning of the words could not reach her. It was useless to try to read: every perception of the outer world was lost in the hum of inner activity that made her mind like a forge throbbing with heat and noise. But suddenly her glance fell on some pencilled sentences on the fly-leaf. They were in Amherst’s hand, and the sight arrested her as though she had heard him speak.
La vraie morale se moque de la morale.…
We perish because we follow other men’s examples.…
Socrates used to call the opinions of the many by the name of Lamiæ—bugbears to frighten children.…
A rush of air seemed to have been let into her stifled mind. Were they his own thoughts? No—her memory recalled some confused association with great names. But at least they must represent his beliefs—must embody deeply-felt convictions—or he would scarcely have taken the trouble to record them.
She murmured over the last sentence once or twice:
The opinions of the many—bugbears to frighten children.… Yes, she had often heard him speak of cur-
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