"I seem to be at times--not exactly isolated, but unable to get close
to--to Kathleen, for example. Do you know, Duane, it might be very good
for me to have you to talk to."

"People usually like to talk to me. I've noticed it. But the curious
part of it is that they have nothing to give me in exchange for my
attention."

"What do you mean?"

He laughed. "Oh, nothing. I amuse people; I know it. You--and
everybody--say I am all cleverness and froth--not to be taken seriously.
But did it ever occur to you that what you see in me you evoke.
Shallowness provokes shallowness, levity, lightness, inconsequence--all
are answered by their own echo.... And you and the others think it is I
who answer."

He laughed, not looking at her:

"And it happens that you--and the others--are mistaken. If I appear to
be what you say I am, it is merely a form of self-defence. Do you think
I could endure the empty nonsense of a New York winter if I did not
present to it a surface like a sounding-board and let Folly converse
with its own echo--while, behind it, underneath it, Duane Mallett goes
about his own business."

Astonished, not clearly understanding, she listened in absolute silence.
Never in all her life had she heard him speak in such a manner. She
could not make out whether bitterness lay under his light and easy