In any case perhaps it was well he had given her maidenly modesty no chance of confession. Marriage had never loomed as a possibility for him—the life of the thinker must needs shrink from the complications and prejudices engendered by domestic happiness: the intellectual love of God more than replaced these terrestrial affections.
But now a sudden conviction that nothing could replace them, that they were of the essence of personality, wrapped him round as with flame. Some subtle aroma of emotion like the waft of the orange-groves of Burgos in which his ancestors had wandered thrilled the son of the mists and marshes. Perhaps it was only the conserve of red roses. At any rate that was useless in this fever.
He took up his tools resolutely, but he could not work. He fell back on his rough sketch for a lucid Algebra, but his lucid formulæ were a blur. He went downstairs and played with the delighted children and listened to the landlady's gossip, throwing her a word or two of shrewd counsel on the everyday matters that came up. Presently he asked her if the van den Endes had told her anything of their plans.
"Oh, they were going to stay at Scheveningen for the bathing. The second time they came up from there."
His heart leapt. "Scheveningen! Then they are practically here."
"If they have not gone back to Amsterdam."
"True," he said, chilled.
"But why not go see? Henri tramped ten miles for me every Sunday."
Spinoza turned away. "No, they are probably gone back. Besides, I know not their address."
"Address? At Scheveningen! A village where everybody's business can be caught in one net."