spirit and heaviness of limb. He was hurt somewhere, without knowing
where; somewhere within him there was a pin-point of pain--one of those
almost imperceptible wounds which we cannot lay a finger on, but which
incommode us, tire us, depress us, irritate us--a slight and occult
pang, as it were a small seed of distress.

When he reached the square in front of the theatre, he was attracted
by the lights in the Cafe Tortoni, and slowly bent his steps to the
dazzling facade; but just as he was going in he reflected that he would
meet friends there and acquaintances--people he would be obliged to
talk to; and fierce repugnance surged up in him for this commonplace
good-fellowship over coffee cups and liqueur glasses. So, retracing his
steps, he went back to the high-street leading to the harbour.

"Where shall I go?" he asked himself, trying to think of a spot he liked
which would agree with his frame of mind. He could not think of one, for
being alone made him feel fractious, yet he could not bear to meet any
one. As he came out on the Grand Quay he hesitated once more; then he
turned towards the pier; he had chosen solitude.

Going close by a bench on the breakwater he sat down, tired already of
walking and out of humour with his stroll before he had taken it.

He said to himself: "What is the matter with me this evening?" And he
began to search in his memory for what vexation had crossed him, as we
question a sick man to discover the cause of his fever.

His mind was at once irritable and sober; he got excited, then he
reasoned, approving or blaming his impulses; but in time primitive
nature at last proved the stronger; the sensitive man always had the