"But at the Savoy, the Ritz, the Carlton--no. Their gilded banality
isn't the _cadre_ for you at all."

"I'm very happy at the Savoy," Armine replied.

As he spoke, he looked away from Meyer Isaacson across the table to the
wall opposite to him. Upon it hung a large reproduction of Watts's
picture, "Progress." He gazed at it, and his face became set in a
strange calm, as if he had for a moment forgotten the place he was in,
the people round about him. Meyer Isaacson watched him with a
concentrated interest. There was something in this man--there always had
been something--which roused in the Doctor an affection, an admiration,
that were mingled with pity and even with a secret fear. Such a nature,
the Doctor often thought, must surely be fore-ordained to suffering in a
world that holds certainly many who cherish ideals and strive to mount
upwards, but a majority that is greedy for the constant gratification of
the fleshly appetites, that seldom listens to the dim appeal of the
distant voices which sometimes speak, however faintly, to all who dwell
on earth.

"What a splendid thing that is!" Armine said, at last, with a sigh. "You
know the original?"

"I saw it the other day at the gallery in Compton."

"Progress--advance--going on irresistibly all the time, whether we see
it, feel it, or not. How glorious!"

"You are always an optimist?"