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           "Well,"continuedBurne,"youmaystrikeafewpoemsthataretiresome,butImeanthemassofhiswork.He’stremendous—likeTolstoi.Theybothlookthingsintheface,and,somehow,differentastheyare,standforsomewhatthesamethings."

           "Youhavemestumped,Burne,"Amoryadmitted."I’veread’AnnaKarenina’andthe’KreutzerSonata’ofcourse,butTolstoiismostlyintheoriginalRussianasfarasI’mconcerned."

           "He’sthegreatestmaninhundredsofyears,"criedBurneenthusiastically."Didyoueverseeapictureofthatshaggyoldheadofhis?"

           Theytalkeduntilthree,frombiologytoorganizedreligion,andwhenAmorycreptshiveringintobeditwaswithhismindaglowwithideasandasenseofshockthatsomeoneelsehaddiscoveredthepathhemighthavefollowed.BurneHolidaywassoevidentlydeveloping—andAmoryhadconsideredthathewasdoingthesame.Hehadfallenintoadeepcynicismoverwhathadcrossedhispath,plottedtheimperfectabilityofmanandreadShawandChestertonenoughtokeephismindfromtheedgesofdecadence—nowsuddenlyallhismentalprocessesofthelastyearandahalfseemedstaleandfutile—apettyconsummationofhimself...andlikeasombrebackgroundlaythatincidentofthespringbefore,thatfilledhalfhisnightswithadrearyterrorandmadehimunabletopray.