He turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such fathomless disillusion, on Connie, and she trembled a little. He seemed so old⁠ ⁠… endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down in him generation after generation, like geological strata; and at the same time he was forlorn like a child. An outcast, in a certain sense; but with the desperate bravery of his ratlike existence.

“At least it’s wonderful what you’ve done at your time of life,” said Clifford contemplatively.

“I’m thirty⁠ ⁠… yes, I’m thirty!” said Michaelis, sharply and suddenly, with a curious laugh; hollow, triumphant, and bitter.

“And are you alone?” asked Connie.

“How do you mean? Do I live alone? I’ve got my servant. He’s a Greek, so he says, and quite incompetent. But I keep him. And I’m going to marry. Oh, yes, I must marry.”