so for his own sake. He had been an egoist, had been thinking, perhaps
not solely but certainly chiefly, of himself. But in these lonely
moments men are generally essentially themselves. Nigel was not
essentially an egoist. And soon himself had been almost forgotten. He
had been thinking far more of Mrs. Chepstow than of himself. And now he
thought of her again in connection with this turning of the great wheel
of progress. At first he thought of her alone in this connection, then
of her and of himself.

It is difficult to do anything quite alone, anything wholly worth the
doing. That was what he was thinking. Nearly always some other intrudes,
blessedly intrudes, to give conscious, or unconscious, help. A man puts
his shoulder to the wheel, and in front of him he sees another shoulder.
And the sight gives him courage.

The thought of strenuous activity made him think of Mrs. Chepstow's
almost absolute inactivity. He saw her sitting, always sitting, in her
room, while life flowed on outside. He saw her pale face. That her face
was carefully made pale by art did not occur to him. And then again he
thought of Mrs. Browning and of the mountain peaks.

What was he going to do?

He made a strong mental effort, as he would have expressed it, to "get
himself in hand." Now, then, he must think it out. And he must "hold up"
his enthusiasm, and just be calm and reasonable, and even calculating.

He thought of the girl whom he had loved long ago and who had died.
Since her death he had put aside love as a passion. Now and then--not
often--a sort of travesty of love had come to him, the spectre of the