He had caught up his overcoat and as he put one arm through the sleeve
with a vigorous thrust, he laughed out with his mouth behind the
collar:

"I think I know what is the trouble with the authors of the books."

"The trouble is," she replied, "the trouble is that the authors are
right and the books are right: men and women _are_ only Incidents
to each other in life," and she passed out into the hall.

"Human life itself for that matter is only an incident in the
universe," he replied, "if we cared to look at it in that way; but
we'd better not!"

He was standing near the table in the middle of the room; he suddenly
stopped buttoning his overcoat. His eyes began to wander over the
books, the prints, the pictures, embracing in a final survey
everything that he had brought together from such distances of place
and time. His work was in effect done. A sense of regret, a rush of
loneliness, came over him as it comes upon all of us who reach the
happy ending of toil that we have put our heart and strength in.

"Are you coming?" she called faintly from the hall.

"I am coming," he replied, and moved toward the door; but there he
stopped again and looked back.

Once more there came into his face the devotion of the student; he was
on the commons where the race encamps; he was brother to all brothers
who join work to work for common good. He was feeling for the moment