No matter what her father may
have told her, the newspaper story, with its vile innuendoes concerning
his adult life, must sicken her. There was one peak of shame which
Enoch refused to achieve. He would not submit himself either to
Diana's pity or to her scorn. But there was, he was finding, a
peculiar solace in merely traveling in Diana's desert. He had complete
faith that here he would find something of the sweet philosophy that
had written itself in Diana's face.
For Enoch had not come to middle life without learning that on a man's
philosophy rests his ultimate chance for happiness, or if not for
happiness, content. He knew that until he had sorted and separated
from each other the things that mattered and the things that did not
matter, he must be the restless plaything of circumstance. In his
younger days he had been able to persuade himself that if his point of
view on his life work were right and sane, nothing else could hurt him
too much. But now, easing himself to the pony's gentle trot and
staring into the exquisite blue silence of the desert night, he told
himself that he had been a coward, and that his cowardice had made him
shun the only real experience of life.
Public service? Yes, it had been right for him to make that his life
work.
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