at it
incredulously.

"This is a fraud of which I have never even dreamed," he said. "Tears
and no sorrow! Here am I crying! growing maudlin! whilst I am glad that
she is gone and I free. I have the mechanism of grief in me somewhere;
it begins to turn at sight of her though I have no sorrow; just as she
used to start the mechanism of passion when I had no love. And that made
no difference to her; whilst the wheels went round she was satisfied. I
hope the mechanism of grief will flag and stop in its spinning as soon
as the other used to. It is stopping already, I think. What a mockery!
Whilst it lasts I suppose I am really sorry. And yet, would I restore
her to life if I could? Perhaps so; I am therefore thankful that I
cannot." He folded his arms on the rail and gravely addressed the dead
figure, which still affected him so strongly that he had to exert his
will to face it with composure. "If you really loved me, it is well for
you that you are dead--idiot that I was to believe that the passion you
could inspire, you poor child, would last. We are both lucky; I have
escaped from you, and you have escaped from yourself."

Presently he breathed more freely and looked round the room to help
himself into a matter-of-fact vein by a little unembarrassed action, and
the commonplace aspect of the bedroom furniture. He went to the pillow,
and bent over it, examining the face closely.

"Poor child!" he said again, tenderly. Then, with sudden reaction,
apostrophizing himself instead of his wife, "Poor ass! Poor idiot! Poor
jackanapes! Here is the body of a woman who was nearly as old as myself,
and perhaps wiser, and here am I moralizing over it as if I were God
Almighty and she a baby! The more you remind a man of what he is, the
more conceited he becomes. Monstrous! I shall feel immortal presently."

He touched the cheek with a faint attempt at roughness, to feel how cold
it was. Then he touched his own, and remarked:

"This is what I am hastening toward at the express speed of sixty
minutes an hour!" He stood looking down at the face and tasting this
sombre reflection for a long time. When it palled on him, he roused
himself, and exclaimed more cheerfully:

"After all, she is not dead. Every word she uttered--every idea she
formed and expressed, was an inexhaustible and indestructible impulse."
He paused, considered a little further, and relapsed into gloom, adding,
"and the dozen others whose names will be with hers in