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 Most of Aunt Verona's possessions he burnt. They were not for the profane. He preserved only her music. Into his bags also went trifling objects which should remind him of boyish faiths and illusions—among them the lacquer box with its dead flowers. Phœbe, after all, had not come to see the bouquet. She must remain in ignorance of that episode, as Leila had remained in ignorance of the "secrets" he had planned to reveal to her. His life was a succession of fanciful projects which never got beyond a dress-rehearsal.

The inventory was completed before dawn, and Paul lay down for the last time in the little room from whose walls Queen Victoria and Sir John Macdonald looked so forbiddingly forth. His life in Hale's Turning, where he had come to anchor, was ended—but what of the friends who remained? He would have preferred not to see them again. Whatever friendliness he had enjoyed had been offered to the image his friends had made of him, an image in their own likeness. His real self they had involuntarily shunned, or sought to edit. True, some, including Phœbe, had overcome the first shock and made timid advances. But he could never forget their shrinking. He could forgive—Lord yes, had forgiven freely, just as he hoped to be forgiven for having at times, in the groping past, been a sheep among sheep. The long hours of reflection had at least purged his soul of rancour. But after all he was a new man, and as such must be free of confusing associations. On his new pilgrimage, towards the very heart of life, his spirit's meat, as the poet said, must be freedom, his staff must be wrought of strength—carefully conserved strength—and his cloak woven of thought. If there were to be friends—and he felt he was getting beyond the age for making intimate friendships—they could only be people who would accept him for what he was, not for what circumstances had made him appear. Now