"But one must have some sort of society ... And you know perfectly well you are just fishing, Nancibel. Why, the cleverest people in Boston come to your teas, and as for celebrities!"
"Mr. Preston, won't you let me give you a little more tea? Yours looks cold and horrid...."
"... No, I wouldn't call 'The Way of All Flesh' a great novel.'"
"But, really, I'd like to know what is great then."
"A great satire, but not a great novel. . . . It's too embittered, not Olympian and balanced enough to be truly great."
"But as a philosopher ..."
"Ah, as a philosopher ..."
Through rigid glassy layers Wenny watched the nodding of heads, lifting of teacups, setting down of plates, brushing of fingertips. Occasionally he saw himself going through wooden gestures of politeness, heard himself speak. At last they had all gone; he was alone with Nan in the room that smelt of tea and scalded lemon and cake. Outside the windows the ruddy mist was purpling to twilight.
"O, Wenny, why on earth do I do it?"
"I guess because you like it, Nan."