After a quarter of an hour of such search, Will flung
the paper aside, and stamped like a madman about his room. A horror
of life seized him; he understood, with fearful sympathy, the
impulse of those who, rather than be any longer hustled in this
howling mob dash themselves to destruction.
He thought over the list of his friends. Friends--what man has
more than two or three? At this moment he knew of no one who wished
him well who could be of the slightest service. His acquaintances
were of course more numerous. There lay on his table two invitations
just received--the kind of invitation received by every man who
does not live the life of a hermit. But what human significance had
they? Not a name rose in his mind which symbolised helpfulness.
True, that might be to some extent his own fault; the people of whom
he saw most were such as needed, not such as could offer, aid. He
thought of Ralph Pomfret. There, certainly, a kindly will would not
be lacking, but how could he worry with his foolish affairs a man on
whom he had no shadow of claim? No: he stood alone. It was a lesson
in social science such as reading could never have afforded him. His
insight into the order of a man's world had all at once been
marvellously quickened, the scope of his reflections incredibly
extended. Some vague consciousness of this now and then arrested him
in his long purposeless walks; he began to be aware of seeing common
things with new eyes.
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