“You are very discouraging, Mr. Vaness.”
“No, madam—I face facts. When I was a youngster I had plenty of fluffy aspiration towards I didn’t know what—I even used to write poetry.”
“Oh! Mr. Vaness, was it good?”
“It was not, and I very soon learned that a genuine sensation was worth all the uplift in the world.”
“What is going to happen when your senses strike work?”
“I shall sit in the sun and fade out.”
“I certainly do like your frankness.”
“You think me a cynic, of course; I am nothing so futile, Miss Sabine. A cynic is just a posing ass proud of his attitude. I see nothing to be proud of in my attitude, just as I see nothing to be proud of in the truths of existence.”
“Suppose you had been poor?”
“My senses would be lasting better than they are; and when they at last failed I should die quicker from want of food and warmth—that’s all.”