"Interest in people, and life, and gay times, and pretty things, and--and one's self and one's own feelings. And the feelings of the people one loves." "Yes. It comes to exactly the point I've been stressing. People are sordid, life is hopeless, gay times are stupid, beauty is sensual, one's own feelings are selfish. And love is carnal. That's the array of horrors that holds your interest!" The girl laughed in exasperation. "Nick, you could out-argue your name-sake, the Devil himself! Do you really believe that indictment of the normal viewpoint?" "I do--often!" "Now?" "Now," he said, turning his gaze on Pat, "I have no feeling of it at all. Now, right now, I don't believe it." "Why not?" she queried, smiling ingenuously at him. "You, obviously." "Gracious! I had no idea my logic was as convincing as that." "Your logic isn't. The rest of you is." "That sounds like a compliment," observed Pat. "If it is," she continued in a bantering tone, "it's the only one I can recall obtaining from you." "That's because I seldom call attention to the obvious." "And that's another," laughed the girl. "I'll have to mark this date in red on my calendar. It's entirely unique in our--let's see--nearly a month's acquaintance." "Is it really so short a time? I know you so well that it must have taken years. Every detail!" He closed his eyes. "Hair like black silk, and oddly dark blue eyes--if I were writing a poem at the moment, I'd call them violet. Tiny lips, the sort the Elizabethan called bee-stung. Straight nose, and a figure that is a sort of vest-pocket copy of Diana. Right?" He opened his eyes. "Nice, but exaggerated. And even if you were correct, that isn't Pat Lane, the real Pat Lane. A camera could do better on a tenth of a second's acquaintance!" "Check!" He closed his eyes again. "Personality, piquant. Character, loyal, naturally happy, intelligent, but not serious. An intellectual butterfly; a dilettante. Poised, cool, self-possessed, yet inherently affectionate. A being untouched by reality, as yet, living in Chicago and in a make-believe world at the same time." He paused, "How old are you, Pat?" "Twenty-two. Why?" "I wondered how long one could manage to stay in the world of make-believe. I'm twenty-six, and I'm long exiled." "I don't think you know what you mean by a make-believe world. I'm sure I don't." "Of course you don't. You can't know and still remain there. It's like being happy; once you realize it, it's no longer perfect." "Then don't explain!" "Wouldn't make any difference if I did, Pat. It's a queer world, like the Sardoodledom of Sardou and the afternoon-tea school of playwrights. All stage-settings and pretense, but it looks real while you're watching, especially if you're one of the characters." The girl laughed. "You're a deliciously solemn sort, Nick. How would you like to hear my analysis of you?" "I wouldn't!"