"My little fancy man's quite as fond of me as of you, Bess. ” “But that is ridiculous!” he exclaimed. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton.
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