Women went past in multitudes， and he knew the appearanceof them all. How many times he had watched them or theirduplicates striding and mincing and bounding by， eachmoving like an animated note of interrogation！ They werelong， and medium， and short. There were women of a thinnessbeyond comparison， sheathed in skirts as featly as a rapier ina scabbard. There were women of a monumental， a mightyfatness， who billowed and rolled in multitudinous， stormygarments. There were slow eyes that drooped on one heavilyas a hand， and quick ones that stabbed and withdrew， andglanced again appealingly， and slid away cursing. There weresome who lounged with a false sedateness， and some whofluttered in an equally false timidity. Some wore velvet shoeswithout heels. Some had shoes， the heels whereof were of suchinordinate length that the wearers looked as though they wereperched on stilts and would topple to perdition if their skillfailed for an instant. They passed and they looked at him； andfrom each， after the due regard， he looked away to the next ininterminable procession.
There were faces also to be looked at： round chubby faceswherefrom the eyes of oxen stared in slow， involved rumination.
Long faces that were keener than hatchets and as cruel. Facesthat pretended to be scornful and were only piteous. Facescontrived to ape a temperament other than their own. Raddledfaces with heavy eyes and rouged lips. Ragged lips that hadbeen chewed by every mad dog in the world. What lips therewere everywhere！ Bright scarlet splashes in dead-white faces.
Thin red gashes that suggested rat-traps instead of kisses.
Bulbous， flabby lips that would wobble and shiver if attentionfailed them. Lips of a horrid fascination that one looked at andhated and ran to… Looking at him slyly or boldly， they passedalong， and turned after a while and repassed him， and turnedagain in promenade.
He had a sickness of them all. There had been a time whenthese were among the things he mourned for not having done，but that time was long past. He guessed at their pleasures， andknew them to be without salt. Life， said he， is as unpleasantas a plate of cold porridge. Somehow the world was growingempty for him. He wondered was he outgrowing his illusions，or his appetites， or both？ The things in which other men tooksuch interest were drifting beyond him， and （for it seemedthat the law of compensation can fail） nothing was driftingtowards him in recompense. He foresaw himself as a boxwith nothing inside it， and he thought—It is not through loveor fear or distress that men commit suicide： it is because theyhave become empty： both the gods and the devils have desertedthem and they can no longer support that solemn stagnation.
He marvelled to see with what activity men and women playedthe most savourless of games！ With what zest of pursuit theytracked what petty interests. He saw them as ants scurrying withscraps of straw， or apes that pick up and drop and pick again，and he marvelled from what fount they renewed themselves， orwith what charms they exorcised the demons of satiety.
On this night life did not seem worth while. The taste hadgone from his mouth； his bock was water vilely coloured； hiscigarette was a hot stench. And yet a full moon was peepingin the trees along the path， and not far away， where thecountryside bowed in silver quietude， the rivers ran throughundistinguishable fields chanting their lonely songs. Theseas leaped and withdrew， and called again to the stars， andgathered in ecstasy and roared skywards， and the trees did notrob each other more than was absolutely necessary. The menand women were all hidden away， sleeping in their cells， wherethe moon could not see them， nor the clean wind， nor thestars. They were sundered for a little while from their eternalarithmetic. The grasping hands were lying as quietly as thepaws of a sleeping dog. Those eyes held no further speculationthan the eyes of an ox who lies down. The tongues that hadlied all day， and been treacherous and obscene and respectfulby easy turn， said nothing more； and he thought it was verygood that they were all hidden， and that for a little time theworld might swing darkly with the moon in its own wide circleand its silence.
He paid for his bock， gave the waiter a tip， touched his hatto a lady by sex and a gentleman by clothing， and strolled backto his room that was little， his candle that was three-quartersconsumed， and his picture which might be admired when hewas dead but which he would never be praised for painting；and， after sticking his foot through the canvas， he tuggedhimself to bed， agreeing to commence the following morningjust as he had the previous one， and the one before that， andthe one before that again.