"Utterly," reiterated Jack, gloomily,—"as regards all I hold dear. 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. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. Ann Veronica looked bright and a little elated, and she disregarded her father’s invitation to be seated.
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