It was one of the peculiarities which he shared with many sensitive and
sensuous natures, that his first thought in any unpleasant situation
was always a reflection upon the bitterness of existence. He always
thought of the laying down of life as the easiest method of escape from
any disagreeable dilemma. He was infected with the distaste of life,
that disease which is seldom fatal, yet which in time destroys all save
life alone. He thought now how he hated living, and the inevitable
reflection came after, how easy it were to get out of the coil of
humanity. A faint smile of bitterness curled his lips as he recalled a
remark which Helen Greyson had once quoted to him as having been made
of him by her dead husband. "He'll want to kill himself, but he won't.
He's too soft-hearted, and he'd never forget other people and their
opinions." He had acknowledged to himself that this was true, and he
wondered whether Mrs. Greyson appreciated its justice.
The thought of Helen brought up the old days when he had been so
frankly her friend that he had told her everything that was in his
heart except those things which vanity bade him conceal lest he fall in
her estimation.
It was so long since he had known a friend on those intimate terms
under which it makes no especial difference what is said, since even in
silence the understanding is perfect, and the pleasure of talking
depends chiefly on the exchange of the signs of complete mutual
comprehension, that the old days appealed to him with wonderful power.
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