RODERICK HUDSON
"My indifference, my neglect of her, must have seemed to you too base," his companion pursued. "Altogether I must have appeared simply hideous."
"Do you really care," Rowland was prompted to ask, "for what you may have appeared?"
"Certainly. I've been damnably stupid. Isn't an artist supposed to be a man of fine perceptions? I have n't, as it turns out, had one."
"Well, you 've a beautiful one now, and we can start afresh."
"And yet," said Roderick, "though you 've suffered, in a degree, I don't believe you 've suffered so much as some other men would have done."
"Very likely not. In such matters quantitative analysis is difficult."
Roderick picked up his stick and stood looking at the ground. "I must nevertheless have seemed hideous," he repeated — "hideous." He turned away frowning, and Rowland offered no contradiction.
They were both silent a while, and at last Roderick gave a long, subdued exhalation, the discharge of a consciousness too suddenly overloaded, and began to move off.
"Where are you going?" Rowland then demanded.
"Oh, I don't care! To walk, to look about, to 'commune with nature.' You 've given me an idea, and I nowadays have so few that I 'm taking this one with me. I don't quite know what I can do with it, but perhaps I shall find out. Leave me to try — though I 've already been so stupid." This seemed a salutary impulse, yet Rowland felt a nameless doubt. "That,
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