. . .
Progress was a labyrinth . . . people plunging blindly in and then
rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it . . . the invisible
king--the elan vital--the principle of evolution . . . writing a book,
starting a war, founding a school. . . .
Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all
inquiries with himself. He was his own best example--sitting in the rain,
a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own
temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in
building up the living consciousness of the race.
In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance
of the labyrinth.
* * * *
Another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi hurried along
the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white
from a night's carouse. A melancholy siren sounded far down the river.
* * * *
MONSIGNOR
Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral.
It was magnificently Catholic and liturgical.
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