When Paul arrived at Newark, he got off the train and took another cab, directing the driver to follow the Pennsylvania tracks out of the town.  The snow lay heavy on the roadways and had drifted deep in the open fields.  Only here and there the dead grass or dried weed stalks projected, singularly black, above it.  Once well into the country, Paul dismissed the carriage and walked, floundering along the tracks, his mind a medley of irrelevant things.  He seemed to hold in his brain an actual picture of everything he had seen that morning.  He remembered every feature of both his drivers, the toothless old woman from whom he had bought the red flowers in his coat, the agent from whom he had got his ticket, and all of his fellow-passengers on the ferry.  His mind, unable to cope with vital matters near at hand, worked feverishly and deftly at sorting and grouping these images.  They made for him a part of the ugliness of the world, of the ache in his head, and the bitter burning on his tongue.  He stooped and put a handful of snow into his mouth as he walked, but that, too, seemed hot.  When he reached a little hillside, where the tracks ran through a cut some twenty feet below him, he stopped and sat down.

The carnations in his coat were drooping with the cold, he noticed; all their red glory over.  It occurred to him that all the flowers he had seen in the show windows that first night must have gone the same way, long before this.  It was only one splendid breath they had, in spite of their brave mockery at the winter outside the glass.  It was a losing game in the end, it seemed, this revolt against the homilies by which the world is run.  Paul took one of the blossoms carefully from his coat and scooped a little hole in the snow, where he covered it up.  Then he dozed a while, from his weak condition, seeming insensible to the cold.

The sound of an approaching train woke him, and he started to his feet, remembering only his resolution, and afraid lest he should be too late.  He stood watching the approaching locomotive, his teeth chattering, his lips drawn away from them in a frightened smile; once or twice he glanced nervously sidewise, as though he were being watched.  When the right moment came, he jumped.  As he fell, the folly of his haste occurred to him with merciless clearness, the vastness of what he had left undone.  There flashed through his brain, clearer than ever before, the blue of Adriatic water, the yellow of Algerian sands.

He felt something strike his chest,—­his body was being thrown swiftly through the air, on and on, immeasurably far and fast, while his limbs gently relaxed.  Then, because the picture making mechanism was crushed, the disturbing visions flashed into black, and Paul dropped back into the immense design of things.

A Wagner Matinee