The young man had grown silent again.
Heavily he went up to his room.

Mechanically he seated himself at the table.

But, instead of opening books, he propped his head upon his hands, and so sat for a long, long time.
When thoughts began to shape themselves (at first he did not think, but lived in a mere tumult of emotions) he recalled Irene's question: what career had he really in view?
A dull, respectable clerkship, with two or three hundred a year, and the chance of dreary progress by seniority till it was time to retire on a decent pension?
That, he knew, was what the Civil Service meant.

The far, faint possibility of some assistant secretaryship to some statesman in office; really nothing else.

His inquiries had apprised him of this delightful state of things, but he had not cared.