But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. She knew that babies came from the womb; her womb had fallen out with her baby. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. "Before to-morrow morning I will ascertain what has become of Thames, or perish in the attempt. my first symphony!” Brown’s eyebrows rose skeptically.
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