"You were right to shut all your dreams into one glass marble, Mr. Temple."
"It's the way of a fool, Miss O'Neill."
"No, it's the way of a wise man, who realizes that the big marble smashed is worth more to him than all the little ones still rolling about the floor."
"If he has deliberately shut all his dreams into the one marble, and is aware that the loss of it is as much his gain as the gain of it—then yes. But not if he is simply a blind weakling who can't help loving the one marble—clutches it so tightly that he smashes it—and resents furiously the escape of his dreams...."
"The marble would need to be of very brittle glass——" She regarded him quizzically: "These metaphorical metaphysics are miles beyond me, you know! Besides which, it happens to be the theme of my book—or rather, its antithesis, which you have been so merrily expounding. Out with the truth, Mr. Temple—you've read it after all."
His features stiffened to immobility. "Ah, yes, your book; I will make enquiries at once. The delay is quite unforgivable. Good afternoon, Miss O'Neill."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Temple."
Gareth, shutting the door on the lazy mischievous banter of her voice, felt as though since half an hour he had been walking on thick resilient turf. He sat dreaming at his desk ... dreaming of the girl Patricia ... spinning webs of words over her personality, with the ease and busyness of the diligent spider....
Patricia!... Oh, the flush and stir of romance in her; not romance faintly suggested, but expression of the thing itself, incarnate and unconscious, in the splendour of her build, her long loose limbs and negligent bearing; in the clean backward spring of her hair, and in that haunting amazing smile, and in her careless quip of speech ... inexhaustible romance!