Some of us, however, still take an occasional crack at keeping alive the memory of what men once were—or fanning the hope of what they may be.
Once, for instance, men behaved with compassion toward women; they were even interested in how women feel; what women did was actually important to men—once. It may again be so.
But the likelihood is that nobody ever escaped Sodom alive. Lot's wife looked back for a last squint at the new streamlined dish washers—and turned to a pillar of salt. Lot, a moment later, tried to save a charred copy of the financial page—and turned into a pillar of bicarbonate of soda.
I got to about that point in my estimates when the doors opened again. Yvonne appeared—flushed and tousled—a drink in one hand and some books in the other.
"Lonesome?" she asked.
"Far from it," I said. "I was working with the Lord."
She laughed. "Join us?"
I shook my head.
"I thought not. Here! Amusez-vous!" She threw the books on my bed and shut the door again.