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           TheearlywindstirredthechintzcurtainsatthewindowsandhewasidlypuzzlednottobeinhisroomatPrincetonwithhisschoolfootballpictureoverthebureauandtheTriangleClubonthewallopposite.Thenthegrandfather’sclockinthehalloutsidestruckeight,andthememoryofthenightbeforecametohim.Hewasoutofbed,dressing,likethewind;hemustgetoutofthehousebeforehesawIsabelle.Whathadseemedamelancholyhappening,nowseemedatiresomeanticlimax.Hewasdressedathalfpast,sohesatdownbythewindow;feltthatthesinewsofhisheartweretwistedsomewhatmorethanhehadthought.Whatanironicmockerythemorningseemed!—brightandsunny,andfullofthesmellofthegarden;hearingMrs.Borge’svoiceinthesun-parlorbelow,hewonderedwherewasIsabelle.

           Therewasaknockatthedoor.

           "Thecarwillbearoundattenminutesofnine,sir."

           Hereturnedtohiscontemplationoftheoutdoors,andbeganrepeatingoverandover,mechanically,aversefromBrowning,whichhehadoncequotedtoIsabelleinaletter:

           "Eachlifeunfulfilled,yousee,

           Ithangsstill,patchyandscrappy;

           Wehavenotsigheddeep,laughedfree,

           Starved,feasted,despaired—beenhappy."

           Buthislifewouldnotbeunfulfilled.Hetookasombresatisfactioninthinkingthatperhapsallalongshehadbeennothingexceptwhathehadreadintoher;thatthiswasherhighpoint,thatnooneelsewouldevermakeherthink.