” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. You spoke just now of a youth whom Mr. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. ‘Don’t be silly. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. 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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