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And then life--life would be the wonder it so perplexingly just
isn't. . . .

2

Benham did not go about the world telling people of this consuming
research. He was not the prophet or preacher of his idea. It was
too living and intricate and uncertain a part of him to speak freely
about. It was his secret self; to expose it casually would have
shamed him. He drew all sorts of reserves about him, he wore his
manifest imperfections turned up about him like an overcoat in
bitter wind. He was content to be inexplicable. His thoughts led
him to the conviction that this magnificent research could not be,
any more than any other research can be, a solitary enterprise, but
he delayed expression; in a mighty writing and stowing away of these
papers he found a relief from the unpleasant urgency to confess and
explain himself prematurely. So that White, though he knew Benham
with the intimacy of an old schoolfellow who had renewed his
friendship, and had shared his last days and been a witness of his
death, read the sheets of manuscript often with surprise and with a
sense of added elucidation.


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