speech, whether a maliciously perverse humour lurked there, whether it
was some new mockery.

He said carelessly: "I give what I receive. And I have never received
any very serious attention from anybody. I'm only Duane Mallett,
identified with the wealthy section of society you inhabit, the son of a
wealthy man, who went abroad and dabbled in colour and who paints
pictures of pretty women. Everybody and the newspapers know me. What I
see of women is a polished coquetry that mirrors my fixed smirk; what I
see of men is less interesting."

He looked out through the dusk at the darkening water:

"You say you are beginning to feel isolated. Can anybody with any
rudiment of intellect feel otherwise in the social environment you and I
inhabit--where distinction and inherited position count for absolutely
nothing unless propped up by wealth--where any ass is tolerated whose
fortune and lineage pass inspection--where there is no place for
intelligence and talent, even when combined with breeding and lineage,
unless you are properly ballasted with money enough to forget that you
have any?"

He laughed.

"So you feel isolated? I do, too. And I'm going to get out. I'm tired of
decorating a set where the shuttle-cock of conversation is worn thin,
frayed, ragged! Where the battledore is fashionable scandal and the
players half dead with ennui and their neighbour's wives----"

"Duane!"