ing . . . Was he still such a dreamer, even though all the rest of his life belied his dreams? What did he mean by suddenly going to that woman, apologizing to her that afternoon because he didn't know how to talk and then suddenly talking, talking like a boy, telling her things—shadowy things of the past—which he had never told to anybody, because they were not things to be told, because, once told, they ceased to exist? . . . What interest did she take in his childish games and his childish dreams? . . . He had probably bored her: perhaps she had laughed at him—the cynical little laugh of the society-woman—and at his really too-ridiculous simplicity, the simplicity of a man who had thought and worked and lived and who had yet always remained a child . . . in certain little corners of his soul . . . He was so much ashamed at the recollection of all that he had dared to say to her, so much ashamed of the irresistible impulse which had driven him to speak to her, at such length, of his childhood and his childish imaginings, that he was now—as though to regain mastery of himself after the strange spell of her presence—that he was now fighting with the wind, to make himself feel strong again and a man . . . The wind clung howling to his body, dragged itself by his legs, struck him blinding blows in the face, but he walked on: his strong legs walked on, with a sharp, regular step, ever mightier than the wind, which he trod under foot and kicked out of his path . . .
