He had an idea--which may amuse his historian--that when you were stupid enough to be mistaken about such a matter you did know it.

Therefore he wasn't mistaken--his future might be MIGHT be scientific.

There was nothing in himself, at all events, to prevent it.
He was allying himself to science, for what was science but the absence of prejudice backed by the presence of money?
His life would be full of machinery, which was the antidote to superstition, which was in its turn, too much, the consequence, or at least the exhalation, of archives.

He thought of these--of his not being at all events futile, and of his absolute acceptance of the developments of the coming age to redress the balance of his being so differently considered.

The moments when he most winced were those at which he found himself believing that, really, futility would have been forgiven him.