Then he turned towards the house,
for it was bed-time. But the front door was locked. The house-maid, a
petticoat thrown over her nightgown, let him in. A glimpse of her bare
shoulders roused him from his sentimental reveries; he tried to put
his arm round her and kiss her, for at the moment he was conscious of
nothing but her sex. But the maid had already disappeared, shutting
the door with a bang. Overwhelmed with shame he opened his window,
cooled his head in a basin of cold water and lighted his lamp.
When he had got into bed, he took up a volume of Arndt's _Spiritual
Voices of the Morning_, a book which had belonged to his mother; he
read a chapter of it every evening to be on the safe side, for in the
morning his time was short. The book reminded him of the promise of
chastity given to his mother on her death-bed, and he felt a twinge of
conscience. A fly which had singed its wings on his lamp, and was now
buzzing round the little table by his bedside, turned his thoughts
into another channel; he closed the book and lit a cigarette. He heard
his father take off his boots in the room below, knock out his pipe
against the stove, pour out a glass of water and get ready to go to
bed. He thought how lonely he must be since he had become a widower.
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