His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. " "Bah!" returned the woollen-draper. "Very well, Mr. ’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. CHAPTER I. . 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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