Now he found a strange comfort in it.

Why strive and cry, when none watched the effort or heard the agony?
Why torture himself?
Why torture others?
If the world were good, why was he not to have his part?
If it were bad, might he not find a quiet nook under the wall, out of the storm?
Why must he try to breast it?
If Ayre was right, what a tragical farce his struggle was, what a perverse delusion, what an aimless flinging away of the little joy his little life could offer! If this were so, then was he indeed alone in the world--except for Claudia.

Was his choice in truth between this world and the next?
He might throw one away and never find the other.
Then he cursed the voice, and himself for listening to it, and fell again to vehement prayers and self-reproaches, trying to drown the clamor of his heart with his insistent petitions.

If he could only pray as he had been wont to pray, he was saved.

There lay a respite from thought and a refuge from passion.