And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. I cannot work, I cannot teach. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. After all, this could never be the black sheep.
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