The great
chandelier in the salon was not lighted, but from the casement
windows shone out the comfortable glow of Peter's lamp.
CHAPTER XXI
Peter had had many things to think over during the ride down the
mountains. He had the third-class compartment to himself, and sat
in a corner, soft hat over his eyes. Life had never been
particularly simple to Peter--his own life, yes; a matter of
three meals a day--he had had fewer--a roof, clothing. But other
lives had always touched him closely, and at the contact points
Peter glowed, fused, amalgamated. Thus he had been many
people--good, indifferent, bad, but all needy. Thus, also, Peter
had committed vicarious crimes, suffered vicarious illnesses,
starved, died, loved--vicariously.
And now, after years of living for others, Peter was living at
last for himself--and suffering.
Not that he understood exactly what ailed him. He thought he was
tired, which was true enough, having had little sleep for two or
three nights. Also he explained to himself that he was smoking
too much, and resolutely--lighted another cigarette.
Two things had revealed Peter's condition to himself: McLean had
said: "You are crazy in love with her." McLean's statement,
lacking subtlety, had had a certain quality of directness. Even
then Peter, utterly miserable, had refused to capitulate, when to
capitulate would have meant the surrender of the house in the
Siebensternstrasse.
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