“But you might think of your wife.”
“I have thought of her—too much. I thought about everything too much. I am tired of thinking,” said Witherle. “I wonder if you understand?”
“Not in the least.”
Witherle looked about him restlessly. “Come where we can talk—down there on that pile of boards. I think I’d like to talk. It is very simple when once you understand it.”
He led the way to the opposite end of the bridge, and down an embankment to a lumber-pile at the water’s edge. Up the river the May sun had gone down in splendor, leaving the water crimson-stained. Witherle sat down where he could look along the river-reaches.
“Hold on a minute, Witherle. Don’t talk to me unless you are sure you want to.”
“That’s all right. There’s nothing much to tell. I don’t seem to mind your understanding.”
Witherle was silent a minute.
“It is very simple,” he said again. “This is the way I think about it. Either you do the things you want to do in this world or else you don’t. I had never done what I wanted until I left home. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody by coming away in that style, and I don’t think that I did. I’d rather not be selfish, but life got so dull. I couldn’t stand it. I had to have a change. I had to come. The things you have to do you do. There was a Frenchman once who committed suicide and left a note that said: ‘Tired of this eternal buttoning and unbuttoning.’ I know how he felt. I don’t know how other men manage to live. Perhaps their work means more to them than mine had come to mean to me. It was just dull, that was all, and I had to come.”
Lowndes stared. Truly it was delightfully simple. “Why, man, you can’t chuck your responsibilities overboard like that. Your wife——”