"In military and civil life. In every kind of life."
"Indeed. And.. how do you understand that sort of thing?"
"What sort of thing?"
"A... a man's feeling that way for another man? What's the explanation?—the excuse for it?"
"Oh, I don't pretend to understand it. There are things we would better not try to understand..."
Ah, had I only finished that the sentence as I certainly meant to do in beginning it!... with some such words as "—so much as often to pardon." But the sentence remained open; and I know that it sounded as if it was meant to end with some such phrase as "... because they are so beyond any understanding, beyond any excuse!"
Imre walked on beside me, whistling softly. Just two or three notes, over and over, no tune. Then he remarked abruptly:
"Did you ever happen to meet with... that sort of a man... person... yourself... in your own circle of friends?"
Again the small detail, this time one of commission, not omission, on my part! Through it this narrative is, I suspect, twice as long as otherwise it would have been. "Did I ever know such a man... a 'person'... in my own circle of friends?" Irony could no farther go! I laughed, not in mirth, not in contempt, but in sheer bitterness of retrospect. There are instants when it may be said of other men than Cassius:
"And when he smiles, he smiles in such a sort