"I always have
been, you know. I expect I always shall be. I'm the square peg in the
round hole--and that's always comic. But she doesn't laugh at me.
She's just let me join in like a good sport. I know I'm out of place,
too, among her smart pals--you needn't rub it in--but she doesn't seem
to make any difference, I might be the smartest of the lot. I tell
you, when I think of the good times I've had, I feel--I feel"--absurd
and drunken tears came into his eyes--"as though I were in church--I'm
so awfully grateful."
"Her smart pals pay pretty dearly for their good times. It will be
time to be grateful when she's had enough of you." It escaped him
against his will. He knew the futility of such taunts which seemed to
betray an anger too senseless to be admitted. He did not care enough
to be angry.
"You--you don't understand, old chap. Seems cheek--my saying that to
you. But you're not like other people--you don't need the things they
have to have to keep going. And, anyhow, she's not responsible for the
asses men make of themselves." He was becoming more fuddled as the
warmth of the room closed over his wine-heated brain. But his eyes had
changed. They had narrowed to two twinkling slits of gay
secretiveness. "More things in heaven and earth than you dream of, old
chap. But you don't dream, do you? Never did. Got your teeth into
facts--diseases--and getting on--and all that. What's a song and a
dance to you? But I wish you liked her, all the same.
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