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admit that Katharine owed him nothing。 Katharine had
promised nothing； taken nothing； to her his dreams had
meant nothing。 This； indeed； was the lowest pitch of his
despair。 If the best of one’s feelings means nothing to
the person most concerned in those feelings； what reality
is left us？ The old romance which had warmed his
days for him； the thoughts of Katharine which had painted
every hour； were now made to appear foolish and enfeebled。
He rose； and looked into the river； whose swift
race of duncolored waters seemed the very spirit of futility
and oblivion。
“In what can one trust； then？” he thought； as he leant
there。 So feeble and insubstantial did he feel himself that
he repeated the word aloud。
“In what can one trust？ Not in men and women。 Not in
one’s dreams about them。 There’s nothing—nothing； nothing
left at all。”
Now Denham had reason to know that he could bring to
birth and keep alive a fine anger when he chose。 Rodney
provided a good target for that emotion。 And yet at the
moment； Rodney and Katharine herself seemed disembodied
ghosts。 He could scarcely remember the look of
them。 His mind plunged lower and lower。 Their marriage
seemed of no importance to him。 All things had turned
to ghosts； the whole mass of the world was insubstantial
vapor； surrounding the solitary spark in his mind； whose
burning point he could remember； for it burnt no more。
He had once cherished a belief； and Katharine had embodied
this belief； and she did so no longer。 He did not
blame her； he blamed nothing； nobody； he saw the truth。
He saw the duncolored race of waters and the blank shore。
But life is vigorous； the body lives； and the body； no
doubt； dictated the reflection； which now urged him to
movement； that one may cast away the forms of human
beings； and yet retain the passion which seemed inseparable
from their existence in the flesh。 Now this passion
burnt on his horizon； as the winter sun makes a greenish
pane in the west through thinning clouds。 His eyes were
set on something infinitely far and remote； by that light
he felt he could walk； and would； in future； have to find
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his way。 But that was all there was left to him of a populous
and teeming world。
CHAPTER XIII
The lunch hour in the office was only partly spent by
Denham in the consumption of food。 Whether fine or wet；
he passed most of it pacing the gravel paths in Lincoln’s
Inn Fields。 The children got to know his figure； and the
sparrows expected their daily scattering of breadcrumbs。
No doubt； since he often gave a copper and almost always
a handful of bread； he was not as blind to his surroundings
as he thought himself。
He thought that these winter days were spent in long
hours before white papers radiant in electric light； and in
short passages through fogdimmed streets。 When he came
back to his work after lunch he carried in his head a
picture of the Strand； scattered with omnibuses； and of
the purple shapes of leaves pressed flat upon the gravel；
as if his eyes had always been bent upon the ground。 His
brain worked incessantly； but his thought was attended
with so little joy that he did not willingly recall it； but
drove ahead； now in this direction； now in that； and came
home laden with dark books borrowed from a library。
135
Night and Day
Mary Datchet； ing from the Strand at lunchtime；
saw him one day taking his turn； closely buttoned in an
overcoat； and so lost in thought that he might have been
sitting in his own room。
She was overe by something very like awe by the
sight of him； then she felt much inclined to laugh； although
her pulse beat faster。 She passed him； and he
never saw her。 She came back and touched him on the
shoulder。
“Gracious； Mary！” he exclaimed。 “How you startled me！”
“Yes。 You looked as if you were walking in your sleep；”
she said。 “Are you arranging some terrible love affair？
Have you got to reconcile a desperate couple？”
“I wasn’t thinking about my work；” Ralph replied； rather
hastily。 “And； besides； that sort of thing’s not in my line；”
he added； rather grimly。
The morning was fine； and they had still some minutes
of leisure to spend。 They had not met for two or three
weeks； and Mary had much to say to Ralph； but she was
not certain how far he wished for her pany。 However；
after a turn or two； in which a few facts were muni
cated； he suggested sitting down； and she took the seat
beside him。 The sparrows came fluttering about them； and
Ralph produced from his pocket the half of a roll saved
from his luncheon。 He threw a few crumbs among them。
“I’ve never seen sparrows so tame；” Mary observed； by
way of saying something。
“No；” said Ralph。 “The sparrows in Hyde Park aren’t as
tame as this。 If we keep perfectly still； I’ll get one to
settle on my arm。”
Mary felt that she could have forgone this display of
animal good temper； but seeing that Ralph； for some curious
reason； took a pride in the sparrows； she bet him
sixpence that he would not succeed。
“Done！” he said； and his eye； which had been gloomy；
showed a spark of light。 His conversation was now addressed
entirely to a bald cocksparrow； who seemed bolder
than the rest； and Mary took the opportunity of looking
at him。 She was not satisfied； his face was worn； and his
expression stern。 A child came bowling its hoop through
the concourse of birds； and Ralph threw his last crumbs
of bread into the bushes with a snort of impatience。
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“That’s what always happens—just as I’ve almost got
him；” he said。 “Here’s your sixpence； Mary。 But you’ve
only got it thanks to that brute of a boy。 They oughtn’t
to be allowed to bowl hoops here—”
“Oughtn’t to be allowed to bowl hoops！ My dear Ralph；
what nonsense！”
“You always say that；” he plained； “and it isn’t nonsense。
What’s the point of having a garden if one can’t
watch birds in it？ The street does all right for hoops。 And
if children can’t be trusted in the st