His thoughts moved on: "I've been twelve years with him. Twelve years
we've been daily together, and when I said that about the books I sat
there and he sat there--and just looked. Stared at each other like
masks. Masks! Nothing but a mask to be seen for either of us. I sit
behind my mask and he sits behind his and that's all we see. Twelve
mortal years! And there're thousands of people in thousands of
offices ... thousands of homes ... just the same. All behind masks.
Mysterious business. Extraordinary. How do we keep behind? Why do we
keep behind? We're all going through the same life. Come the same way.
Go the same way. You look at insects, ants, scurrying about, and not
two of them seem to have a thing in common, not two of them seem to
know one another; and you think it's odd, you think it's because they
don't know they're all in the same boat. But we're just the same. They
might think it of us. And we _do_ know. And yet you get two lives and
put them together twelve years in an office ... in a house.... Mabel
and I ... practically we just sit and look at each other. Her mask. My
mask...."

He thought: "One knows what it is, what it looks like, with ants.
They're all plugging about like mad like that, not knowing one another,
nor caring, because they all seem to be looking for something. I
wonder.... I wonder--are we? Is that the trouble? All looking for
something.... You can see it in half the faces you see. Some wanting,
and knowing they are wanting something. Others wanting something but
just putting up with it, just content to be discontented. You can see
it. Yes, you can. Looking for what? Love? But lots have love. Happiness?
But aren't lots happy? But are they?"

He knitted his brows: "It goes deeper than that. It's some universal
thing that's wanting. Is it something that religion ought to give, but
doesn't? Light? Some new light to give every one certainty in religion,
in belief. Light?"

His thoughts went to Mabel. "Those houses in King's Close are going to
be eighty pounds a year, and what do you think, Mrs. Toller is going to
take one." And he had not answered her but had rustled the newspaper and
had intended her to know why he had rustled the paper: to show he
couldn't stick it! Unkind. His heart smote him for Mabel. Such a
pathetically simple thing for Mabel to find enjoyment in! Why, he might
just as reasonably rustle the newspaper at a baby because it had
enjoyment in a rattle. A rattle would not