Ralph went down to his own room and threw himself in the old college
arm-chair in which, four years previously, he had sat the night out,
dreaming of Undine. He had no study of his own, and he had crowded into
his narrow bed-room his prints and bookshelves, and the other relics of
his youth. As he sat among them now the memory of that other night swept
over him--the night when he had heard the "call"! Fool as he had been
not to recognize its meaning then, he knew himself triply mocked in
being, even now, at its mercy. The flame of love that had played
about his passion for his wife had died down to its embers; all the
transfiguring hopes and illusions were gone, but they had left an
unquenchable ache for her nearness, her smile, her touch. His life
had come to be nothing but a long effort to win these mercies by one
concession after another: the sacrifice of his literary projects,
the exchange of his profession for an uncongenial business, and the
incessant struggle to make enough money to satisfy her increasing
exactions. That was where the "call" had led him... The clock struck
eight, but it was useless to begin to dress till Undine came in, and he
stretched himself out in his chair, reached for a pipe and took up the
evening paper. His passing annoyance had died out; he was usually too
tired after his day's work for such feelings to keep their edge long.
But he was curious--disinterestedly curious--to know what pretext Undine
would invent for being so late, and what excuse she would have found for
forgetting the little boy's birthday.
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