He was a bachelor, three or four years older than Isabel. He lived in beautiful rooms overlooking the river, guarded by a faithful Scottish man-servant. And he had his friends among the fair sex—not lovers, friends. So long as he could avoid any danger of courtship or marriage, he adored a few good women with constant and unfailing homage, and he was chivalrously fond of quite a number. But if they seemed to encroach on him, he withdrew and detested them. Isabel knew him very well, knew his beautiful constancy, and kindness, also his incurable weakness, which made him unable ever to enter into close contact of any sort. He was ashamed of himself, because he could not marry, could not approach women physically. He wanted to do so. But he could not. At the centre of him he was afraid, helplessly and even brutally afraid. He had given up hope, had ceased to expect any more that he could escape his own weakness. Hence he was a brilliant and successful barrister, also _littérateur_ of high repute, a rich man, and a great social success. At the centre he felt himself neuter, nothing. Isabel knew him well. She despised him even while she admired him. She looked at his sad face, his little short legs, and felt contempt of him. She looked at his dark grey eyes, with their uncanny, almost childlike intuition, and she loved him. He understood amazingly—but she had no fear of his understanding. As a man she patronized him. And she turned to the impassive, silent figure of her husband. He sat leaning back, with folded arms, and face a little uptilted. His knees were straight and massive. She sighed, picked up the poker, and again began to prod the fire, to rouse the clouds of soft, brilliant sparks. “Isabel tells me,” Bertie began suddenly, “that you have not suffered unbearably from the loss of sight.” Maurice straightened himself to attend, but kept his arms folded. “No,” he said, “not unbearably. Now and again one struggles against it, you know. But there are compensations.” “They say it is much worse to be stone deaf,” said Isabel. “I believe it is,” said Bertie. “Are there compensations?” he added, to Maurice. “Yes. You cease to bother about a great many things.” Again Maurice stretched his figure, stretched the strong muscles of his back, and leaned backwards, with uplifted face. “And that is a relief,” said Bertie. “But what is there in place of the bothering? What replaces the activity?” There was a pause. At length the blind man replied, as out of a negligent, unattentive thinking: “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a good deal when you’re not active.” “Is there?” said Bertie. “What, exactly? It always seems to me that when there is no thought and no action, there is nothing.” Again Maurice was slow in replying. “There is something,” he replied. “I couldn’t tell you what it is.” And the talk lapsed once more, Isabel and Bertie chatting gossip and reminiscence, the blind man silent.