And now it was
all gone into nothingness, there was nothing left of it, nothing at
all, but just those sheets of statement, and it may be, stored away
in one single mind, like things forgotten in an attic, a few
neglected faded memories. . . .
And even those few sheets of statement were more than most love
leaves behind it. For a time White would not read them. They lay
neglected on his knee as he sat back in Benham's most comfortable
chair and enjoyed an entirely beautiful melancholy.
White too had seen and mourned the spring.
Indeed, poor dear! he had seen and mourned several springs. . . .
With a sigh he took up the manuscript and read Benham's desiccated
story of intellectual estrangement, and how in the end he had
decided to leave his wife and go out alone upon that journey of
inquiry he had been planning when first he met her.
3
Amanda had come back to England in a state of extravagantly vigorous
womanhood. Benham's illness, though it lasted only two or three
weeks, gave her a sense of power and leadership for which she had
been struggling instinctively ever since they came together.
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