The spoke was receding. Verelst, swallowing his disappointment, retorted: "Incoherence is easy too."
"Well, you are right there," Jones, lighting another cigarette, replied. "But there is nothing incoherent in the fact that fear is magnetic. What we dread, we attract. If our winning young friend fears the pitcher, the pitcher will probably land on him. That is the reason why, to vary your various metaphors, I declared that there would be no downing on the racecourse. On the contrary and look here. I will wager you not one pippin or two pippins, I will go so far as to lay a whole basket that Miss Austen becomes Mrs. Lennox."
Verelst sniffed. "You don't know her mother."
"No. I have not that honour. But I enjoy a bowing acquaintance with logic."
"Do you, now? I wonder if it bows back. I'll book your bet."
"Very good. Make it fancy pippins."
Verelst stood up. "Fancy is the only term that could be applied them."
"And of such is the Kingdom of Heaven," Jones told himself as the old man moved away.
He looked about. The great room had filled. Stocks, money, war, the odour of alcohol, the smell of cigars, the rustling of evening papers, the sound of animated talk about nothing whatever, the usual atmosphere had reassembled itself.
From it he turned to the window, to the westering sun, to the motors, the smart gowns and the women who looked so delightful and of whom all had their secrets—secrets trivial, momentous, perverse or merely horrible.