Above him and all around him brooded the genius of
infinity, dispassionate, inscrutable, grey.
Jacynth turned and mutely beckoned her husband to the window.
They stood there, these two, gazing silently down.
Presently Jacynth said: "Adrian, are you sure that we, you and I, for
all our theories, and all our efforts, aren't futile?"
"No, dear. Sometimes I am not sure. But--there's a certain comfort in
not being sure. To die for what one knows to be true, as many saints
have done--that is well. But to live, as many of us do nowadays, in
service of what may, for aught we know, be only a half-truth or not
true at all--this seems to me nobler still."
"Because it takes more out of us?"
"Because it takes more out of us."
Standing between the live bird and the dead, they gazed across
the river, over the snow-covered wharves, over the dim, slender
chimneys from which no smoke came, into the grey-black veil of the
distance. And it seemed to them that the genius of infinity did not
know--perhaps did not even care--whether they were futile or not,
nor how much and to what purpose, if to any purpose, they must go
on striving.
CHRISTMAS
_By_
G.S. STR**T
One likes it or not. This said, there is plaguey little else to say of
Christmas, and I (though I doubt my sentiments touch you not at all)
would rather leave that little unsaid.
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