I investigated such intricate delicacies in Ricky as I have not attempted to describe here and I saw how sorrow would run through them all; I watched the infinite loyalty of a daughter turned by the slab of a tomb; I saw my family lifting up the load of their one more bereavement and my friends kicking stones, not selfishly, but for the world they hoped I might someday somehow bring my jot of meaning to. I paced the muggy flat and cursed. And more. I shall not tell you for you already know the sentiments whereby love, and duty, too, are transferred. Only at long, long last I realized how much I, who own nothing but my inner self, had imagined I owned them. It was an injury I'd done them. And so one more illusion set aside its mask, at least for that while, that now. How many there were! How often I saw them on other countenances; how rarely I lifted them from my own. Finally, I fell asleep. An old, old man--sitting in a chair. PART FIVE _Coda_ Rain teemed in the stone-gray morning. My little Big Day. A tepid stew was strained from the colander of heaven and dripped in lachrymose gray juice that steamed on every brick and tile and slate and on the asphalt acreage of the street. I sent for my drab breakfast. You are familiar with its one element. A cup and a cup and a cup. I set myself to my last installment. For a while, the inked deletions wavered and ran off the track. I went to the window and watched the rain smoke on my parapet--looked up at the insipid sky--found no one there--and finally turned to the roses which drooped a little in the corner of the room--drooped but glowed--and perfumed every glaucous shadow of the morning with fond recollection. The lines came straighter, after that. By and by I called Hugo about my ticket. "Closed in," he said. "They're landing a few planes still--but they've delayed departures. Later, it's supposed to clear--and it'll be cooler. This is the front of a high coming in from Canada." Closed in. "Shall I try the evening flight?" "Sure," I said. I gave the number of the sanitarium. "Oh, yes, Mr. Wylie, Mr. Wilson had a comfortable night. He's talking to Dr. Adams, now. I couldn't interrupt. He seems quite cheerful--said if you phoned to tell you he'd call back when he finished his consultation." I turned over the last page--read, cut one more paragraph, marked the lines on my long tally sheet, counted them, and felt, suddenly, the negative pressure of completion--the vacuum's strain, the sense of deprivation. Work can be addictive--one more self-enchantment of the cortex--another of the infinite autohypnoses. And when the addict's done with it, what comfort is there for his unemployment?