Page:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 1 (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907).djvu/532

 ? Rowland's meditations, even when they began in rancour, often brought him comfort; but on this occasion they hurt him as if they had been sharp-cornered objects bumped against in darkness. He recognised a sudden collapse of his moral energy; a current that had been flowing for two years with a breadth of its own seemed at last to submit to shrinkage and thinness. He looked away at the sallow vapours on the mountains; their dreariness had an analogy with the stale residuum of his own generosity. At last he had arrived at the very limit of the deference a sane man might pay to other people's folly; nay, rather, he had transgressed it, he had been befooled on a gigantic scale. He turned to his book and tried to woo back patience, but it gave him cold comfort and he tossed it angrily away. He pulled his hat over his eyes and tried to wonder dispassionately if atmospheric conditions might n't have to do with his gloom. He remained some time in this attitude, but was finally roused from it by an odd sense that although he had heard nothing some one had approached him. He looked up and saw Roderick standing before him on the turf. His mood made the spectacle unwelcome, and for a moment he felt himself ungraciously glare. Roderick's face, on the other hand, took up, even before he spoke, something that evidently figured to him as their old relation. It was if he had come back to him — and that, after a moment, made our friend sit up.

"I should like you to do me a favour," the young man presently said. "I should like you to lend me some money." 498