“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. I have plenty in common with Mike. 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. Overjoyed beyond measure at having vanquished this apparently-insurmountable obstacle, Jack darted through the door. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures.
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