of shadowy, far-off things, or, still better, be merely a sympathetic
presence. He passed rapidly in review people he had known, saw their
faces and heard their voices, but not one of them would do. No, he
wanted a friend, the friend he had often dreamed of, whose thoughts
would be his thoughts, with whom there would be no need of speech.
Then his longing swelled, grew fiercer and more undefined, and a
sudden burst of energy convulsed him and struggled to find vent. His
breath came hard, and he stretched his arms out into the night,
uncertainly, as if to grasp something he did not see; but they fell to
his side again. He would have liked to sweep through the air, to feel
the wind rushing dizzily through him; or to be set down before some
feat that demanded the strength of a Titan--anything, no matter what,
to be rid of the fever in his veins. But it beset him, again and
again, only by slow degrees weakening and dying away.

A bitter moisture sprang to his eyes. Leaning his head on his arms, he
endeavoured to call up her face. But it was of no use, though he
strained every nerve; for some time he could see only the rose that
had lain beside her on the piano, and in the troubled image that at
last crowned his patience, her eyes looked out, like jewels, from a
setting of golden petals.

Lying wakeful in the darkness, he saw them more clearly. Now, though,
they had a bluish light, were like moons, moons that burnt. If he lit
the lamp and tried to read, they got between him and the book, and
danced up and down the pages, with jerky, clockwork movements, like
stage fireflies. He put the light out, and lay staring vacantly
at the pale square of the window. And then, just when he was least
expecting it, he saw the whole face, so close to him and so
distinctly, that he started up on his elbow; and in the second or two