" And, as he spoke, he took up a sheet of paper, and hastily traced a few lines upon it. Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland. 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. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.
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