It seemed to him that this was rather fine; it was a fatigue of the soul that he was to rest from. He remembered the apostrophic close of a novel in which the heroine dies after much emotional suffering. “Quiet, quiet heart!” he repeated to himself. Yes, he too had died to hope, to love, to happiness.
As they drew near their journey's end he said, “I don't know how I'm going to break it to them.”
“Oh, probably break itself,” said Boardman. “These things usually do.”
“Yes, of course,” Dan assented.
“Know from your looks that something's up. Or you might let me go ahead a little and prepare them.”
Dan laughed. “It was awfully good of you to come, Boardman. I don't know what I should have done without you.”
“Nothing I like more than these little trips. Brightens you up to sere the misery of others; makes you feel that you're on peculiarly good terms with Providence. Haven't enjoyed myself so much since that day in Portland.” Boardman's eyes twinkled.
“Yes,” said Dan, with a deep sigh, “it's a pity it hadn't ended there.”
“Oh, I don't know. You won't have to go through with it again. Something that had to come, wasn't it? Never been satisfied if you hadn't tried it. Kind of aching void before, and now you've got enough.”
“Yes, I've got enough,” said Dan, “if that's all.”