They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially.
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