"Pessimism, on the other hand, is the contraction of the soul
towards darkness; it is a focusing of the self upon a point in
the Lower Plane; it is a h-piritual slavery to mere facts; to
gross physical phenomena."

"They're making a wild man of me." The refrain sang itself over
in Denis's mind. Yes, they were; damn them! A wild man, but not
wild enough; that was the trouble. Wild inside; raging,
writhing--yes, "writhing" was the word, writhing with desire.
But outwardly he was hopelessly tame; outwardly--baa, baa, baa.

There they were, Anne and Gombauld, moving together as though
they were a single supple creature. The beast with two backs.
And he sat in a corner, pretending to read, pretending he didn't
want to dance, pretending he rather despised dancing. Why? It
was the baa-baa business again.

Why was he born with a different face? Why WAS he? Gombauld had
a face of brass--one of those old, brazen rams that thumped
against the walls of cities till they fell. He was born with a
different face--a woolly face.

The music stopped. The single harmonious creature broke in two.
Flushed, a little breathless, Anne swayed across the room to the
pianola, laid her hand on Mr. Wimbush's shoulder.

"A waltz this time, please, Uncle Henry," she said.

"A waltz," he repeated, and turned to the cabinet where the rolls