And this made everything so lonely around him. What were a few pleasant, intelligent, artistic friends at Naples, with whom he chatted and dined now and again at a restaurant? And beyond that there was nothing, nothing; and that ... that perhaps was how he would have to grow old: ninety-three, ninety-seven years old! Oh, how that dread shuddered, that shadowing dread, which would always grow colder and colder still, as he grew older! O God, no, no, let him die young, while still in the flower of his youth, though his life was morbid; let him die young!...
Even Mamma was not with him now! She was in London: there lay her last letter; and in her angry written words she complained that Hugh was such a man for girls, always out with girls, leaving her alone!... She saw John now and again, saw Mary now and again; but she suffered agonies because Hugh neglected her, though he always knew how to come to her when he wanted money! It was the first letter in which she expressed herself so angrily, unable to restrain herself, because she suffered so from the sting of jealousy in the flesh of her heart: jealousy because Hugh amused himself with other women, with girls, more than with his mother! And Lot pictured her, alone, spending a long, dreary evening in her room at the hotel, while Hugh was out, with his girls.... Poor Mamma!... Was it beginning so early? But, now that she had Hugh, whom she worshipped, it would last as long as she had any money left ... and only then, when it was all finished, would she come back to him, to Lot ... and, if Elly had returned by that time, then she would be jealous of Elly!...
Yes, that would be the future, without a doubt.... Beyond a doubt, he had not seen Elly for the last time; beyond a doubt she would come back, wearied, and sleep, sleep off her weariness in his arms.... And he would see his mother again also: older, an older woman, worn out, penniless; and she would cry out her grief, cry out her grief in his arms.... And he, with a little laugh of disillusionment, would find a chaffing word of consolation ... and the days would drag by, the things would pass ... pass very, very slowly ... not full of red remorse and hatred, passion and murder, as they had passed for those two very old people ... but full of an inner canker, inner grief and inner, painful suffering, which he would never express and which would be his secret, his, his secret: an innocent secret, free from all crime and other scarlet things, but as torturing as a hidden, gnawing disease....
It was evening now. Well, he would not go out to look for his friends. He would stay indoors, sup off a couple of eggs.... It was late; and the best way to forget was to light the lamp cosily ... and to work, to work quietly, in his loneliness.... Come! He had made the room look homely; there were green plants and white plaster casts and warm-coloured pieces of drapery; there were fine brown photographs on the walls; and he had a big table to write at and the lamp was burning nicely now, after spluttering a little at first.... Come, to work: his dilettante work, the work which he could do best.... To recast and rewrite those articles on the Medicis—O sweet memories of Florence!—that was his work for this evening.... Come, every one must be the best judge of his destiny: Elly of hers, he of his; and that this was so was really not worth distressing yourself for all your life long. There were beautiful and interesting things left, especially in Italy; and spring in the south was such an undiluted joy.... Come, let him soak himself in it now, quietly and in solitude ... and work, work hard and forget.... There was nothing like work: it took your thoughts off yourself and all those dreadful things; and, though you withered and faded in working, still you withered and faded with no time for repining.... And yet it was terrible, terrible ... that one could become as old as Grandmamma had become ... as Mr. Takma had become!... Well, suppose he wrote a novel: a novel about two old people like that ... and about the murder in Java?
He smiled and shook his head:
"No," he thought, almost speaking aloud, "it would be too romantic for me.... And then there are so many novels nowadays: I'll keep to my two.... That is enough, more than enough. Better by far rewrite the Medici series...."
And, as the chill of sunset was over and the starry night outside was growing sultry, he flung open the windows again, drew a deep breath and sat down to his big table, by his bright lamp.... His fair and delicate face bent low over his papers; and, so close to the lamp, it could be seen that he was growing very grey at the temples.