This he had despatched some hours ago, but his last good-bye to Theodora
was not yet written. What could he say to her? How could he tell her of
all the misery and anguish, all the pain which was racking his being;
he, who knew life and most things it could hold, and so could judge of
the fact that nothing, nothing, counted now but herself--and they should
meet no more, and it was the end. A blank, absolute end to all joy.
Nothing to exist upon but the remembrance of an hour or two's bliss and
a few tender kisses.

And as Josiah had done, he could only say: "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

On top of his large escritoire there stood a minute and very perfect
copy of the fragment of Psyche, which he had so intensely admired. He
turned to it now as his only consolation; the likeness to Theodora was
strong; the exact same form of face, and the way her hair grew; the pure
line of the cheek, and the angle which the head was set on to the column
of her throat--all might have been chiselled from her. How often had he
seen her looking down like that. Perhaps the only difference at all was
that Theodora's nose was fine, and not so heavy and Greek; otherwise he
had her there in front of him--his Theodora, his gift of the gods, his
Psyche, his soul. And wherever he should wander--if in wildest Africa or
furthest India, in Alaska or Tibet--this little fragment of white marble
should bear him company.