It did not occur to him that he was not the arbiter of his actions in
that moment, free to choose between good and evil, which he, perhaps,
called by other names just then. He probably could not have remembered
a moment in his whole life at which he had not believed himself the
master of his own future, with full power to do this, or that, or to
leave it undone. And now he was quite sure that he was choosing the
part of wisdom in resisting the strong temptation to do something rash,
which made it a physical effort to sit still and keep his eyes on his
book. He held the volume firmly with both hands as if he were clinging
to something fixed which secured him from being made to move against
his will.
One of fate's most amusing tricks is to let us work with might and main
to help her on, while she makes us believe that we are straining every
nerve and muscle to force her back.
If Logotheti had not insisted on sitting still that afternoon nothing
might have happened. If he had gone out, or if he had shut himself up
with his statue, beyond the reach of visitors, his destiny might have
been changed, and one of the most important events of his life might
never have come to pass.
But he sat still with his book, firm as a rock, sure of himself,
convinced that he was doing the best thing, proud of his strength of
mind and his obstinacy, perfectly pharisaical in his contempt of human
weakness, persuaded that no power in earth or heaven could force him to
do or say anything against his mature judgment. He sat in his deep
chair near a window that was half open, his legs stretched straight out
before him, his flashing patent leather feet crossed in a manner which
showed off the most fantastically over-embroidered silk socks, tightly
drawn over his lean but solid ankles.
From the wall behind him the strange face in the encaustic painting
watched him with drooping lids and dewy lips that seemed to quiver; the
ancient woman, ever young, looked as if she knew that he was thinking
of her and that he would not turn round to see her because she was so
like Margaret Donne.
His back was to the picture, but his face was to the door. It opened
softly, he looked up from his book and Margaret was before him, coming
quickly forward. For an instant he did not move, for he was taken
unawares. Behind her, by the door, a man-servant gesticulated
apologies--the lady had pushed by him before he had been able to
announce her. Then another figure appeared, hurrying after Margaret; it
was little Madame De Rosa, out of breath.