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the referee gotten rid of--every one claiming the referee would have
been on his side....
Progress was a labyrinth... people plunging blindly in and then rushing
wildly back, shouting that they had found it... the invisible king--the
elan vital--the principle of evolution... writing a book, starting a
war, founding a school....
Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all
inquiries with himself. He was his own best example--sitting in the
rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own
temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in
building up the living consciousness of the race.
In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance
of the labyrinth.
Another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi hurried along
the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white
from a night's carouse. A melancholy siren sounded far down the river.
Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral.
It was magnificently Catholic and liturgical. Bishop O'Neill sang solemn
high mass and the cardinal gave the final absolutions. Thornton Hancock,
Mrs. Lawrence, the British and Italian ambassadors, the papal delegate,
and a host of friends and priests were there--yet the inexorable shears
had cut through all these threads that Monsignor had gathered into his
hands. To Amory it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin,
with closed hands upon his purple vestments. His face had not changed,
and, as he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain or fear. It was
Amory's dear old friend, his and the others'--for the church was full
of people with daft, staring faces, the most exalted seeming the most
The cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, sprinkled the holy
water; the organ broke into sound; the choir began to sing the Requiem
All these people grieved because they had to some extent depended upon
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