What was it all for--her struggle ?" That was his despair wanting to go after her.
"You're alive." "She's not." "She is--in you." Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it.
"You've got to keep alive for her sake," said his will in him.
Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse.
"You've got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on with it." But he did not want to.

He wanted to give up.
"But you can go on with your painting," said the will in him.

"Or else you can beget children.

They both carry on her effort." "Painting is not living." "Then live." "Marry whom ?" came the sulky question.
"As best you can." "Miriam ?" But he did not trust that.
He rose suddenly, went straight to bed.

When he got inside his bedroom and closed the door, he stood with clenched fist.
"Mater, my dear--" he began, with the whole force of his soul.