"Why are we to disturb ourselves? Good God, isn't it enough that she should be like that?"
I laughed, as I blew out my cigarette smoke.
"This is an old story," said I. "She is not in love with you, I suppose? That's it, isn't it?"
"It's not the absence of the fact," said he, with a smile; "it's the want of the potentiality that is so deplorable."
"Why torment Struboff, though?"
"Struboff?" he repeated, knitting his brows. "Ah, now Struboff is worth tormenting! You won't believe me; but he can feel."
"I was right, then; I thought he could."
"You saw it?"
"My prospects, perhaps, quicken my wits."
My arm was through his, and he pressed it between his elbow and his side.