Howard himself saw this clearly in his occasional moods of self-criticism.
But as he saw no remedy, he raged intermittently and briefly, and
straightway relapsed. Vanity supplied him with many excuses and
consolations. Was he not one of the best reporters in the profession? Where
was there another, where indeed in any profession were there many of his
age, making five thousand a year? Was he not always improving his mind? Was
he not more and more careful in his personal habits? Was he not respected
by all who knew him; looked upon as a successful man; regarded by those
with whom he came in daily contact as a leader in the profession, a model
for style, a marvel for facility and versatility and for the quantity of
good "copy" he could turn out in a brief time? But with all the soothings
of vanity he never could quite hide from himself that his life was a
failure up to that moment.

"Why try to lie to myself?" he thought. "It's never a question of what one
has done but always of what one could have and should have done. I am
thirty and I have been marking time for at least four years. Preparing by
study and reading? Yes, but not preparing for anything."

On the whole he was glad that Alice had refused to marry him. Her reason
was valid. But there was another which he thought she did not see. He was
deceived as to the depth of her insight because he did not watch her
closely. He had no suspicion how many, many times, in their moments of
demonstrativeness, she listened for those words which never came, listened
and turned away to hide from him the disappointment in her eyes.

He did not love her--and she knew it. She did not inspire ambition in
him--and she knew it. She simply kept him comfortable and contented. She
simply prevented his amatory instincts from gathering strength vigorously