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cate and wonderful, in which happiness did not enter and
in which success was not attempted; and in them might be
discovered a more troubling grace. Some lives, and Hay-
ward’s was among them, the blind indifference of chance
cut off while the design was still imperfect; and then the
solace was comfortable that it did not matter; other lives,
such as Cronshaw’s, offered a pattern which was difficult to
follow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards
had to be altered before one could understand that such a
life was its own justification. Philip thought that in throw-
ing over the desire for happiness he was casting aside the
last of his illusions. His life had seemed horrible when it
was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed to gather
strength as he realised that it might be measured by some-
thing else. Happiness mattered as little as pain. They came
in, both of them, as all the other details of his life came in,
to the elaboration of the design. He seemed for an instant to
stand above the accidents of his existence, and he felt that
they could not affect him again as they had done before.
Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive
to add to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end
approached he would rejoice in its completion. It would be a
work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because
he alone knew of its existence, and with his death it would
at once cease to be.
Philip was happy.

Of Human Bondage