, save as a supreme instrument of control. As miners they had
their being, he had his being as director. He admired their qualities.
But as men, personalities, they were just accidents, sporadic little
unimportant phenomena. And tacitly, the men agreed to this. For Gerald
agreed to it in himself.

He had succeeded. He had converted the industry into a new and terrible
purity. There was a greater output of coal than ever, the wonderful and
delicate system ran almost perfectly. He had a set of really clever
engineers, both mining and electrical, and they did not cost much. A
highly educated man cost very little more than a workman. His managers,
who were all rare men, were no more expensive than the old bungling
fools of his father's days, who were merely colliers promoted. His
chief manager, who had twelve hundred a year, saved the firm at least
five thousand. The whole system was now so perfect that Gerald was
hardly necessary any more.

It was so perfect that sometimes a strange fear came over him, and he
did not know what to do. He went on for some years in a sort of trance
of activity. What he was doing seemed supreme, he was almost like a
divinity. He was a pure and exalted activity.

But now he had succeeded--he had finally succeeded. And once or twice
lately, when he was alone in the evening and had nothing to do, he had
suddenly stood up in terror, not knowing what he was. And he went to
the mirror and looked long and closely at his own face, at his own
eyes, seeking for something. He was afraid, in mortal dry fear, but he
knew not what of. He looked at his own face. There it was, shapely and
healthy and the same as ever, yet somehow, it was not real, it was a
mask. He dared not touch it, for fear it should prove to be only a
composition mask. His eyes were blue and keen as ever, and as firm in
their sockets. Yet he was not sure that they were not blue false
bubbles that would burst in a moment and leave clear annihilation. He
could see the darkness in them, as if they were only bubbles of
darkness. He was afraid that one day he would break down and be a
purely meaningless babble lapping round a darkness.

But his will yet held good, he was able to go away and read, and think
about things. He liked to read books about the primitive man, books of
anthropology, and also works of speculative philosophy. His mind was
very active. But it was like a bubble floating in the darkness. At any
moment it might burst and