"I don't believe it!"
"Of course you don't: at your age one doesn't reason one's materialism. And besides you're mortally hurt that Nick has found out sooner than you, and hasn't disguised his discovery under any hypocritical phrases."
"But surely there are people—"
"Yes—saints and geniuses and heroes: all the fanatics! To which of their categories do you suppose we soft people belong? And the heroes and the geniuses—haven't they their enormous frailties and their giant appetites? And how should we escape being the victims of our little ones?"
She sat for a while without speaking. "But, Streff, how can you say such things, when I know you care: care for me, for instance!"
"Care?" He put his hand on hers. "But, my dear, it's just the fugitiveness of mortal caring that makes it so exquisite! It's because we know we can't hold fast to it, or to each other, or to anything. . . ."
"Yes . . . yes . . . but hush, please! Oh, don't say it!" She stood up, the tears in her throat, and he rose also.
"Come along, then; where do we lunch?" he said with a smile, slipping his hand through her arm.
"Oh, I don't know. Nowhere. I think I'm going back to Versailles."
"Because I've disgusted you so deeply? Just
