At the same time he
was flattered that she had confided in him. It was clear she recognized
that he, at least, was a man. He was really sorry for her--what an
invigorating influence she was!
She had spoken of being no longer young--something over thirty-five he
judged--and that brought the realization that he was getting on. A few
years now, ten or twelve, and life would be behind him. It was a rare
and uncomfortable thought. Usually he saw himself as at the most
desirable age--a young spirit tempered by wisdom and experience. But in
a flash he read that his prime must depart; every hour left was
priceless.
The best part of this must be dedicated to a helpless invalid; a strong
current of self-pity set through him. But it was speedily lost in a
more customary arrogance. August Turnbull repeated the favorite
aphorisms from Frederick Rathe about the higher man. If he believed
them at all, if they applied to life in general they were equally true
in connection with his home; in short--his wife. Emmy Turnbull couldn't
really be called a wife. There should be a provision to release men
from such bonds.
It might be that the will-to-power would release itself. In theory that
was well enough, but practically there were countless small
difficulties. The strands of life were so tied in, one with another.
Opinion was made up of an infinite number of stupid prejudices. In
short, no way presented itself of getting rid of Emmy.
His mind returned to Meta Beggs.
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