I have not the position to which
I may fairly say my abilities and diligence entitle me. I don't
understand why it is--I can't see where I am to blame." Of course I
promised to do what I could, and Gregory handed me a corresponding slip
of paper to his own which he had prepared for me.
We drew near to the little wayside station where he was to catch a
train. It was a summer day of extraordinary loveliness. The great green
fen slept peacefully in the sun, and the low green hills beyond lay
quivering in the haze. Gregory, lost in bitter musings, in his careful
threadbare clothes, rather unpleasantly hot, hopelessly bewildered as
to his place in the universe, conscious of virtue, equipped with
information, desiring neither pity nor affection, but only work and due
recognition, was a sad blot upon nature. The whole business of his
creation and preservation seemed an ugly and a heartless one, and his
redemption beyond the power of imagination. The train came in, and he
got wearily in, shook hands, and immersed himself in a book. He said no
more, made no sign, waved no hand of farewell. He did not feel any
sentimental emotion; he had come on business, and he went away on
business.
Of course it was of no use. I wrote a few letters, read Gregory's
manuscript, and had to take a course of Sherlock Holmes in order to
obliterate the nauseous memory of its dulness.
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