There was enough of pain in his own self-consciousness.

He withdrew himself from the social circle, and, for several years, lived a kind of hermit-life in the midst of society.

But, he was far from being happy in his solitude; for Memory was with him, and almost daily, from the Book of his Life, read to him some darkly written page.
One day, it was three years from the time he parted with Edith in the chamber of death, and when he was beginning to rise in a measure above the depressing influences attendant upon that event,--he received an invitation to make one of a social party on the next evening.

The desire to go back again in society had been gaining strength with him for some time; and, as it had gained strength, reason had pointed out the error of his voluntary seclusion as unavailing to alter the past.
"The past is past," he said to himself, as he mused with the invitation in his hand.

"I cannot recall it--I cannot change it.