Besides, he was himself growing weary of the game. The world had gone stale, had gone cold and sceptical. The fine enthusiasms, the wide sympathies, the common brotherhood of war days had waned and vanished. And his own enthusiasms had vanished too. He remembered bitterly the ardour with which he had gone to work to combat the traducers of the League of Nations, and with what certainty of success. He had felt sure of his country, of her generous soul, her instinct for right, her jealousy of her honour, and he had never recovered from the shock when she denied the League. It had left him stunned and incredulous.
He had buckled on his armour again and laboured to set her right, but, so far as he could see, with absolutely no result. He had simply wasted his time. The doctrine of world effort, of world helpfulness, of world responsibility, which he had preached with such conviction, had fallen upon deaf or hostile ears. So he preached it no longer. He was worn out.
But what remained? Nothing that seemed to him worth while. Oh, he could still bring some food to Austria’s starving children; he could still help or hinder the plans of a petty king; he could still take France’s part in her struggle against isolation. But other men could do that just as well as he.
Perhaps it would be better worth while if he could make a woman happy; a woman whom no other man could make happy....
But how imbecile to suppose there was such a woman! And if there were, what had he to offer her? To drag her down with him on his long descent? No—that was a journey which he would make alone!
And at this point he threw off the covers, bounded out of bed, rang for breakfast, and plunged into his bath, which he made much colder than usual.
He needed bracing. He was getting soft.
After breakfast he settled resolutely to work on the last of his Austrian articles—a summary of the situation, not half so desperate as certain financiers had pictured it, for nothing could deprive Vienna of her position at the very centre of the system along which flowed the trade of central Europe. He kept doggedly at work until it was finished, and as he read it over he decided that it was the best of the lot. At least, he told himself, he had not forgotten how to write!
So it was to a composed and apparently normal Selden that the card of Mr. Charles Wharton Davis was presently handed in, with that young gentleman close behind it. It seemed to Selden, as he greeted him, that his air was unusually subdued.
“You didn’t wait for me last night,” Davis began, accusingly.