With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. She was gone. She used to play violin, you know. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. An unhappy little sigh escaped her.
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