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That was ten
days ago. Now he meant to follow Keith's advice and go there at
midnight. The moon was full.
"This very night I'll go," he thought.
All was not well with Denis. And the worst of it was, he had no clear
notion of what was the matter. He was changing. The world was changing
too. It had suddenly expanded. He felt that he, also, ought to expand.
There was so much to learn, to see, to know--so much, that it seemed to
paralyse his initiative. Could he absorb all this? Would he ever get
things in order once more, and recapture his self-possession? Would he
ever again be satisfied with himself? It was an invasion of his
tranquillity, from within and without. He was restless. Bright ideas
never came to him, as of old; or else they were the ideas of other
people. A miserable state of affairs! He was becoming an automaton--an
echo.
An echo. . . . How right Keith had been!
"It's rotten," he concluded. "I'm a ludicrous figure, a pathetic
idiot."
The novel impressions of Florence had helped in the disintegration.


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