Who could foretell that
she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst
an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the
sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be
shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was
prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who
would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.
Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she
reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any
degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A
fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the
audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures
mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I
will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper
thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the
nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that
cumbers the world.
Pages:
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250