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           HisdisdaingrewlikeareactionofhisscepticismagainsttheactionintowhichhewasforcedbyhisinfatuationforAntonia.Hesoothedhimselfbysayinghewasnotapatriot,butalover.

           Theladiescameinbareheaded,andMrs.Gouldsanklowbeforethelittletea-table.Antoniatookupherusualplaceatthereceptionhour—thecornerofaleatherncouch,witharigidgraceinherposeandafaninherhand.Decoud,swervingfromthestraightlineofhismarch,cametoleanoverthehighbackofherseat.

           Foralongtimehetalkedintoherearfrombehind,softly,withahalfsmileandanairofapologeticfamiliarity.Herfanlayhalfgraspedonherknees.Sheneverlookedathim.Hisrapidutterancegrewmoreandmoreinsistentandcaressing.Atlastheventuredaslightlaugh.

           “No,really.Youmustforgiveme.Onemustbeserioussometimes.”Hepaused.Sheturnedherheadalittle;herblueeyesglidedslowlytowardshim,slightlyupwards,mollifiedandquestioning.

           “Youcan’tthinkIamseriouswhenIcallMonteroagran’bestiaeveryseconddayinthePorvenir?Thatisnotaseriousoccupation.Nooccupationisserious,notevenwhenabulletthroughtheheartisthepenaltyoffailure!”

           Herhandclosedfirmlyonherfan.

           “Somereason,youunderstand,Imeansomesense,maycreepintothinking;someglimpseoftruth.Imeansomeeffectivetruth,forwhichthereisnoroominpoliticsorjournalism.