"I'm beginning to think that I ran away because I couldn't feel, but only melt into a sort of exasperated heat." "But that's like when you lie awake when you're very young and fancy no one wants you, and simply long for someone to want you very much. Oh, you do make me go on." "I'm glad you do, Ann. I'm glad you do." "I dunno----" she seemed to protest. "You must let me say that because I never had such a friend as you." "Oh! Oh! The world seems all upside down. I oughtn't to. I oughtn't to be friends, because you _are_ different. You know you are. It isn't the same. It isn't like having a bit o' fun, and since you came, I'm off my bit o' fun." He caught her hands, and in the confused emotion that had seized him, tried to kiss her; but she broke away and ran up the mews, leaving him standing under the lamp in the archway. He did not move. He was filled with a sweet, healing tenderness that soothed his trouble and made him feel curiously and happily sure of himself, and his mind flew back to the book from which he had quoted, and to all the associations it had brought in its train. And he had lost the uncomfortable sense of a violent change in his life, and began to perceive the inevitability of good and bad, hope and despond, driving him on to adventure and through adventure to appreciation of the mere fact of living, so that the things that happened were almost without significance. No longer did he have any dread of his fate; up or down, it was no great matter; a certain kind of agony it was impossible, it was vile and degrading to bear; a certain kind of happiness it was worth any suffering, any bewilderment to find. And yet happiness was hardly the word for it. Happiness was associated in his mind with being content, settled down, established, a part of surrounding circumstances, without reaction. This that he was beginning to perceive necessitated effort and will, fierce endeavor without ceasing. For an image of it he could find nothing better than tearing about the country with Kurt. Only that was aimless, containing nothing but the pleasure of the moment and the risk of disaster. The conception germinating in his mind had all the swiftness and the peril, but it had also immense purpose, irresistible force, and he said aloud: "Force! Huge force, gripping you, holding you, bearing you on to its purpose which is also your own, so that always you are sure, always stronger than yourself." Out of the dark archway came a voice, saying: "A philosopher in the slums." René started, and groped back to the world of the senses. A tall thin figure loomed up in front of him, and a pale, eager face with a jutting nose and large eyes smiled at him.