Like every ageing artist of genuine accomplishment, he knew--none better--that there is no satisfaction save the satisfaction of fatigue after honest endeavour. He knew--none better--that wealth and glory and fine clothes are nought, and that striving is all.
The man retired, and the door was closed by an expert in closing doors, one who had devoted his life to the perfection of detail in valetry.
And, after meticulously washing-up and straightening, she departed, and Priam remained solitary with his ideas about married life and the fiscal question.
He could not have done it for a million pounds. The thought of it made him sick, raising the whole of his lunch to his throat, as by some sinister magic.
It was a cry of the soul aghast, a cry drawn out of him sharply, by a most genuine cruel alarm.
