There is an immeasurable and soothing restfulness in such intercourse,
especially to a man like Fenton, in whom exists an inner necessity
always to say something when he talks; and as he recalled them now,
something almost a sob rose in Arthur's throat. Many men suppose
themselves to be cultivating their intellect when they are only, by the
gratification of their tastes, quickening their susceptibilities; and
Fenton's whole self-indulged existence had resulted chiefly in
rendering him more sensitive to the discomforts of a universe in the
making of which other things had been considered besides his pleasure.
He looked across the breakfast table at his wife. He noted with
appreciation the beautiful line of her cheek outlined against the dark
leather of the wall behind her. He felt a twinge of remorse for coming
so far short of her ideal of him. He knew how resolutely she refused to
see his worst side, and he reflected with philosophy half bitter and
half contemptuous, that no woman ever lived who could wholly outgrow
the feeling that to believe or to disbelieve a thing must in some
occult way affect its truth. At least she had fulfilled all the
unspoken promises, so much more important than vows put into words
could be, with which she had married him. A remorseful feeling came
over his mind, and instantly followed the instinctive self-excuse that
she could never suffer as keenly as he suffered, no matter how greatly
he disappointed her.
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