It did not occur to him that he was not the arbiter of his actions in

that moment, free to choose between good and evil, which he, perhaps,

called by other names just then. He probably could not have remembered

a moment in his whole life at which he had not believed himself the

master of his own future, with full power to do this, or that, or to

leave it undone. And now he was quite sure that he was choosing the

part of wisdom in resisting the strong temptation to do something rash,

which made it a physical effort to sit still and keep his eyes on his

book. He held the volume firmly with both hands as if he were clinging

to something fixed which secured him from being made to move against

his will.

One of fate's most amusing tricks is to let us work with might and main

to help her on, while she makes us believe that we are straining every

nerve and muscle to force her back.

If Logotheti had not insisted on sitting still that afternoon nothing

might have happened. If he had gone out, or if he had shut himself up

with his statue, beyond the reach of visitors, his destiny might have

been changed, and one of the most important events of his life might

never have come to pass.

But he sat still with his book, firm as a rock, sure of himself,

convinced that he was doing the best thing, proud of his strength of

mind and his obstinacy, perfectly pharisaical in his contempt of human

weakness, persuaded that no power in earth or heaven could force him to

do or say anything against his mature judgment. He sat in his deep

chair near a window that was half open, his legs stretched straight out

before him, his flashing patent leather feet crossed in a manner which

showed off the most fantastically over-embroidered silk socks, tightly

drawn over his lean but solid ankles.

From the wall behind him the strange face in the encaustic painting

watched him with drooping lids and dewy lips that seemed to quiver; the

ancient woman, ever young, looked as if she knew that he was thinking

of her and that he would not turn round to see her because she was so

like Margaret Donne.

His back was to the picture, but his face was to the door. It opened

softly, he looked up from his book and Margaret was before him, coming

quickly forward. For an instant he did not move, for he was taken

unawares. Behind her, by the door, a man-servant gesticulated

apologies--the lady had pushed by him before he had been able to

announce her. Then another figure appeared, hurrying after Margaret; it

was little Madame De Rosa, out of breath.




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