sciousness—a fact full of pathos and mystery: he discovers that the unchallengeably young people really prefer their own society to his, while he prefers their society to that of the men of forty. There is nothing like that to plunge a sword into a man's viscera and twist it about in the wound. He tries to conceal his hurt. He rallies his gaiety and makes a desperate effort to retrace his steps and rejoin the merry-makers who are going a-Maying. But even when he presents himself in scenes dewy with sentiment, sparkling with young desires, and rich with dreams, somehow he does not seem to "enter in." He feels—he confides it soberly and in the utmost confidence to his own heart—he feels like Merrick's hero in quest of his youth, who fell asleep and snored softly—didn't he?—while his old sweetheart bent over him, bitterly, in the trysting hour.
He feels "the fierce necessity to feel" but lacks the power. What is the trouble with him? He knows. He knows. He faces a tragedy. It isn't that he is forty. Other men have
