r him, a deep
sadness, a conviction of loss. Ludowika was singing softly:

"Last Sunday at St. James's prayers
--dressed in all my whalebone airs."

He had come on disaster. The realization flashed through his
consciousness and was engulfed in the submerging of his being in the
overwhelming, stinging blood that had swept him from his old security.
Yet he had been so detached from the merging influences about him, his
organization had been so complete in its isolation, his egotism so
developed, that a last trace of his entity lingered sentient, viewing as
if from a careened but still tenable deck the general submergence. His
thoughts returned to the automatic operation of the consummation
obliterating his person, the inexorable blind movement of the thing in
which he had been caught, dragged into the maw of a supreme purpose. It
was, of course, the law of mere procreation which he had before
contemptuously recognized and dismissed; a law for animals; but he was
no longer entirely an animal. Already he had considered the possibility
of an additional force in the directing of human passion, founded on
something beyond the thirst of flesh, founded perhaps on soaring
companionships, on--on--The condition, the term, he was searching for
evaded him.

He thought of the word love; and he was struck by the vast inaccuracy of
that large phrase. It meant, Howat told himself, literally nothing: what
complex feeling Isabel Penny might have for her husband, Caroline's
frank desire for David Forsythe, Myrtle's meagre emotion, Fanny Gilkan's
sense of Hesa and life's necessary compromises, his own collapse--all
were alike called love. It was not only a useless word but a dangerous
falsity. It had without question cloaked immense harm, pretence; it had
perpetuated old lies, brought them plausibly, as if in a distinguished
and reputable company, out of past superstitions and credulity; the real
and the meaningless, the good and the evil, hopelessly confused.

They were seated at supper, four of them only; Isabel and Gilbert Penny,
and, opposite him, Ludowika. Occasionally he would glance at her,
surreptitiously; his wrists would pound with an irregular, sultry
circulation; longing would harass him like the beating of a club. She,
it seemed to him, grew gayer, younger, more simple, every hour.
Happiness, peace, radiated in her gaze, the gestures of her hands. Howat
wondered at what moment he would destroy it. Reprehensible. A moment
mu