med false thoughts which he would blush to
think again. His life seemed immeasurably impoverished.

He sat himself down, in spite of the chilly fog which obscured the
farther bank and left its lights suspended upon a blank surface, upon
one of the riverside seats, and let the tide of disillusionment sweep
through him. For the time being all bright points in his life were
blotted out; all prominences leveled. At first he made himself believe
that Katharine had treated him badly, and drew comfort from the thought
that, left alone, she would recollect this, and think of him and tender
him, in silence, at any rate, an apology. But this grain of comfort
failed him after a second or two, for, upon reflection, he had to admit
that Katharine owed him nothing. Katharine had promised nothing, taken
nothing; to her his dreams had meant nothing. This, indeed, was the
lowest pitch of his despair. If the best of one's feelings means nothing
to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left
us? The old romance which had warmed his days for him, the thoughts of
Katharine which had painted every hour, were now made to appear foolish
and enfeebled. He rose, and looked into the river, whose swift race of
dun-colored waters seemed the very spirit of futility and oblivion.

"In what can one trust, then?" he thought, as he leant there. So feeble
and insubstantial did he feel himself that he repeated the word aloud.

"In what can one trust? Not in men and women. Not in one's dreams about
them. There's nothing--nothing, nothing left at all."

Now Denham had reason to know that he could bring to birth and keep
alive a fine anger when he chose. Rodney provided a good target for
that emotion. And yet at the moment, Rodney and Katharine herself seemed
disembodied ghosts. He could scarcely remember the look of them. His
mind plunged lower and lower. Their marriage seemed of no importance to
him. All things had turned to ghosts; the whole mass of the world was
insubstantial vapor, surrounding the solitary spark in his mind, whose
burning point he could remember, for it burnt no more. He had once
cherished a belief, and Katharine had embodied this belief, and she did
so no longer. He did not blame her; he blamed nothing, nobody; he saw
the truth. He saw the dun-colored race of waters and the blank shore.
But life is vigorous; the body lives, and the body, no doubt, dictated
the reflection, which now urged him to movement, that on