What must two years be, in which is nothing that outweighs their number. Not failure. For failure is infinite. Not achievement. For though that be limited, it too transcends counting. What then? Weariness, perhaps? Or a clutter of details signifying the same thing? Or a mass of grey without that spot of gleam which makes parts brighter, greater, than the whole? Or somewhat of all these? He could rehearse the parts, if he desired. But it seemed more real to let them gyre about at will--as they were doing. Clarice, business, Adelaide and home--a friend looked for, an acquaintance had but not cherished. The indefatigable past, limed with indifference lest it bring nausea. Mother who clamped his ears when she was ineffectually fond. A raise and praise from his employer. Two weeks in the mountains with Lamory whom he had long since detested.... Whom else to go with? Two weeks with himself was no vacation.... Here was such an hour--with himself. And only the lying on his back, so that the two years slid over him, made that hour possible! Two weeks--a thousand such hours? They would have been unlivable! Lamory prevented the woods from speaking to him. At least, since Lamory was there, he blamed Lamory. He was glad, therefore, that Lamory had been there. Suppose he had been alone and the woods had not spoken! Yet, there had been this very afternoon. Well--the village had made noises behind his back. Can a pagan make love with a Christian boy peeping through the curtains? Small wonder, the elm trees and the clambering grass had remained silent. By the mercy of God, let it not be that really, really, the woods were always, now, to be silent to him! Quincy shivered in bed and prayed for that. And his prayer broke away in the middle, to a waking dream. Clarice walked by his side along a path of poplars and silver-birch that was familiar. “Quincy,” she said, “why don’t you tell me that you love me?” “Why--do you love me, Clarice?” He recalled the day when the sun had been a tiny golden pool in a grey firmament and he had kissed her. Now, he kissed her again. He was very happy, somehow, to recall the earlier occasion. And this angered him. His prayer had broken. Now, also, broke his waking dream. He recalled that he had been praying. It seemed strangely significant that he could never sustain his prayers and dreams. Always, always, they straggled into sleep--or into something else. They were the realest of things to Quincy. Naturally, then, his other ways fared little better. Once more, the two years, outweighing all within them.