He turned instantly and came over to her:
"A bath of flames would be very popular," he said, "if burning didn't hurt. I was just thinking about it—how to invent——"
She quoted: "'But I was thinking of a plan to dye one's whiskers green.'"
He said: "I suppose you think me as futile as that old man 'a-settin' on a gate.'"
"Your pursuits seem to be about as useful as his."
"Why should I pursue things? I don't want 'em."
"You are hopeless. There is pleasure even in pursuit of anything, no matter whether you ever attain it or not. I will never attain wisdom, but it's a pleasure to pursue it."
"It's a pleasure even to pursue pleasure—and it's the only pleasure in pleasure," he said, so gravely that for a moment she thought with horror that he was trying to be precious. Then the latent glimmer in his eyes set them laughing, and she rose and went over to the sofa and curled up in one corner, abandoning all pretense of industry.
"Once," she said, "I knew a poet who emitted such precious thoughts. He was the funniest thing; he had the round, pale, ancient eyes of an African parrot, a pasty countenance, and a derby hat resting on top of a great bunch of colourless curly hair. And that's the way he talked, Mr. Desboro!"