Not even the most trivial. Every tap of your hammer on the brass, every moment of work, my idleness even. . . Dear one! every movement of our poor little one. . . All these things go on for ever. And the faint impalpable things. We, sitting here together.—Everything. . .
"The passion that joined us, and what has come since. It is not passion now. More than anything else it is sorrow. Dear. . ."
He could say no more, could follow his thoughts no further.
Elizabeth made no answer—she was very still; but presently her hand sought his and found it.
IV—UNDERNEATH
Under the stars one may reach upward and touch resignation, whatever the evil thing may be, but in the heat and stress of the day's work we lapse again, come disgust and anger and intolerable moods. How little is all our magnanimity—an accident! a phase! The very Saints of old had first to flee the world. And Denton and his Elizabeth could not flee their world, no longer were there open roads to unclaimed lands where men might live freely—however hardly—and keep their souls in peace. The city had swallowed up mankind.
