His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. Perhaps she was. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. “She”, you say. He went on. ” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray. 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.
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