There was no sequel with Clarice. She had expressed her will and
pleasure, concerning him; together with her fears. She had gone out with
the old. For Quincy’s senses understood what his relation with her
called for; and all of that was abdicated; and that alone was needed.
Had he gone to her now, it must have been with knowledge of the dead
burden she had no power to bear, and no heart to quicken. To this
conclusion, over and again, she had expressed herself. And to this end,
Quincy honored her word. For within his state lay the bar to a more
active course and to a clearer vision.
They did meet, however.
The adverse currents of a great street--relentless and cold and
varicolored--threw them upon each other. The impact stopped them, while
the flood went on. And the obtrusive instinct of their first glance
lighted in each the farce of their words, the irony even of their
stopping. The tearing shuffle of the crowd was the true note. Athwart
it, their attempts to reach each other were refracted, shredded, lost.
He held her gloved hand a moment, he looked into her eyes; and then he
dropped both hold and gaze. It was the final act of letting-go. She
joined her current; his swept him on....
* * * * *
The City is a maze of channels. Through them moves everlastingly a
turbid Stream. Its weight eats downward; deepens the channels;
heightens their walls. And as the City tilts, so runs the Stream.
The history of Quincy is lost in the Stream’s clotted pressure. He is
one more molecule, replenishing its substance. Alone in its blind level
of mass and flow, of clinging death and leaping restlessness, has he a
true reality.
The Stream is a solution of what had been the flaring, eager things of
life. The Stream’s source is Quincy. Quincy’s epilogue is the Stream.