Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. “We’re in for it. Though Gerald must suppose it was inevitable she should eventually come here. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. She rode him gently. 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. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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