A sound, a scent--and behold a person, a scene, or a destiny, rises up
before us. Very often the phantoms that come thronging around me are
those of people whose existence is quite indifferent to me. But they
appear all the same--importunate, overbearing, inevitable.

We may close our doors to visitors in the flesh; but we are forced to
welcome these phantoms of the memory; to notice them and converse with
them without reserve.

People become like books to me. I read them through, turn the pages
lightly, annotate them, learn them by heart. Sometimes I am at fault; I
see them in a new light. Things that were not clear to me become plain;
what was apparently incomprehensible becomes as straightforward as a
commercial ledger.

It might be a fascinating occupation if I could control the entire
collection of these memories; but I am the slave of those that come
unbidden. In the town it was just the reverse; one impression effaced
another. I did not realise that thought might become a burden.

* * * * *

The time draws on. The last few days my nerves have made me feverish and
restless; to-day for no special reason I opened and read all my letters,
except his. It was like reading old newspapers; yet my heart beat faster
with each one I opened.

Life there in the city runs its course, only it has nothing more to do
with me, and before long I shall have dropped out of memory like one