"Not by a long shot," said Nemesis, or words to that effect.
No, somehow it wasn't. He realized it himself; even feeling that didn't give him the sense of repletion and calm that he sought. He paced the room for some time in silent anxiety.
"I really don't know what to do," he admitted at last. "Suppose"—he was appealing to Beatrice now—"suppose you tell me what."
He glanced involuntarily at the photograph. Its unchanging half-smile informed him that all help must now come from himself. A sudden access of rage at that photograph seized him.
"Don't you laugh at me, when I'm trying my best!" he cried.
The picture smiled on. In a burst of fury James picked up the frame and hurled it with all his strength into the mirror. There was a crash and a shower of broken glass, amid which the picture bounded lazily back and fell to the floor, face downward.
James stood and stared at it, and as he stared a curious revulsion came over him. He stooped slowly down, unaccountably hoping with all his soul that the photograph was not hurt. He scarcely dared to turn it over....
The glass was smashed to atoms, but the picture itself was unhurt. No, there was a cut across the face.
"Oh, I've hurt her, I've hurt Beatrice!" he whispered.
Nemesis said something that made him sink into a chair and gaze before him with horror. Cinders, ashes, black coals, some of them still glowing—oh, the mere sight of them then had been unbearable! And now, in view of what he had learned.... He could not face the thought.