The sense of wasted time, of wasted hope and faith, kept him constant company.

There were times when the beautiful things about him only exasperated his discontent.

He went to the Pitti Palace, and Raphael's Madonna of the Chair seemed, in its soft serenity, to mock him with the suggestion of unattainable repose.

He lingered on the bridges at sunset, and knew that the light was enchanting and the mountains divine, but there seemed to be something horribly invidious and unwelcome in the fact.

He felt, in a word, like a man who has been cruelly defrauded and who wishes to have his revenge.