‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. ' We shall be pleased to see more of your work. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. I heard rumours of it in Paris, and the place since then has been closed. . 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. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Beneath that tree let us lie. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. ’ Gerald seized on this. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied.
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