“It is part of the irony of life,” he said. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. Perhaps he truly meant it – perhaps there was a force within him that could withstand the hardships of existing past a mortal lifetime. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as ever. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. “You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things. We shall be equally matched. Have you been inhaling the fumes inside Missy’s car?” She had pushed the exact right button.
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