But he was aware that his wishes grew less and less vehement; he began to have a fear that some time he might have none at all.

It seemed to him that if he could once do something that was thoroughly distasteful to himself, he might make a beginning in the right direction; but when he tried this on a small scale, it failed, and it seemed stupid.

Some sort of expiation was the thing he needed, he was sure; but he could not think of anything in particular to expiate; a man could not expiate his temperament, and his temperament was what Beaton decided to be at fault.

He perceived that it went deeper than even fate would have gone; he could have fulfilled an evil destiny and had done with it, however terrible.

His trouble was that he could not escape from himself; and, for the most part, he justified himself in refusing to try.