He weakly wished that he were wholly bad, that he might feel less.
Then, in true Italian humour, he tried to think of something which might divert his thoughts from the duty of facing their own terrible perplexity.

If it had been evening, he would have strolled into the theatre; had it been already afternoon, he would have had himself driven out along the public garden towards Posilippo, to see the faces of his friends go by.

But it was morning.

There was nothing but the club, and he cared little for the men he might meet there.

There was nothing to do, and his eyes did not help him to forget his troubles.