... Arved's tongue began to speed:--
"Though I've only known you twenty-four hours, my son, I feel impelled
to tell you the history of my happy life--for happiness has its
histories, no matter what the poets say. But the day is hot, our time
limited. Wait until we are recaptured, then I'll spin you a yarn."
"You expect to get caught for sure?"
"I do. So do you. No need to argue--your face tells me that. But we'll
have the time of our life before they gather us in. Anyhow, we'll want
to go back. The whole world is crazy, but ashamed to acknowledge it. We
are not. Pascal said men are so mad that he who would not be is a madman
of a new kind. To escape ineffable dulness is the privilege of the
lunatic; the lunatic, who is the true aristocrat of nature--the unique
man in a tower of ivory, the elect, who, in samite robes, traverses
moody gardens. Really, I shudder at the idea of ever living again in
yonder stewpot of humanity, with all its bad smells. To struggle with
the fools for their idiotic prizes is beyond me. The lunatic asylum--"
"Can't you find some other word?" asked Quell, dryly.
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