Roderick had lost no time in giving
the full measure of his uncompromising chagrin, and as he was the
central figure of the little group, as he held its heart-strings all in
his own hand, it reflected faithfully the eclipse of his own genius. No
one had ventured upon the cheerful commonplace of saying that the change
of air and of scene would restore his spirits; this would have had,
under the circumstances, altogether too silly a sound. The change in
question had done nothing of the sort, and his companions had, at least,
the comfort of their perspicacity. An essential spring had dried up
within him, and there was no visible spiritual law for making it flow
again. He was rarely violent, he expressed little of the irritation and
ennui that he must have constantly felt; it was as if he believed that
a spiritual miracle for his redemption was just barely possible, and was
therefore worth waiting for. The most that one could do, however, was
to wait grimly and doggedly, suppressing an imprecation as, from time to
time, one looked at one's watch. An attitude of positive urbanity toward
life was not to be expected; it was doing one's duty to hold one's
tongue and keep one's hands off one's own windpipe, and other people's.
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