Yet it all seemed to me so futile, despite the wonder of his personality, that I could make nothing of him, and though always fascinated by his character I was held back from exploiting it, because of the hopelessness of it all.

It led nowhere.

It was the 'quid refert' of the philosopher, and I could not bring myself to get any further than an interrogation mark at the end of a life which was all scepticism, mind and matter, and nothing more.
There came a day, however, when that all ended, when the doors were flung wide to a new conception of the man, and of what he might have become.

I was going to America, and I paid an angry and reluctant visit to my London tailor thirty-six hours before I was to start.

A suit of clothes had been sent home which, after an effective trying-on, was a monstrosity.