Then, closing her quivering lips quickly, she dropped the cat softly
on his head and walked toward the door. When she reached it, she put
out one of her hands delicately against a panel and turned her profile
over her shoulder to him:
"Do you know what is the trouble with both of those books?" she asked,
with a struggling sweetness in her voice.
He had caught up his overcoat and as he put one arm through the sleeve
with a vigorous thrust, he laughed out with his mouth behind the
collar:
"I think I know what is the trouble with the authors of the books."
"The trouble is," she replied, "the trouble is that the authors are
right and the books are right: men and women _are_ only Incidents
to each other in life," and she passed out into the hall.
"Human life itself for that matter is only an incident in the
universe," he replied, "if we cared to look at it in that way; but
we'd better not!"
He was standing near the table in the middle of the room; he suddenly
stopped buttoning his overcoat. His eyes began to wander over the
books, the prints, the pictures, embracing in a final survey
everything that he had brought together from such distances of place
and time.
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