"Whose will but theirs has put satiety upon man?" he cried.

"And whence the will in me to escape satiety?" I asked triumphantly.

"Again the gods," he laughed. "It is their game we play. They deal and
shuffle all the cards . . . and take the stakes. Think not that you have
escaped by fleeing from the mad cities. You with your vine-clad hills,
your sunsets and your sunrises, your homely fare and simple round of
living!

"I've watched you ever since I came. You have not won. You have
surrendered. You have made terms with the enemy. You have made confession
that you are tired. You have flown the white flag of fatigue. You have
nailed up a notice to the effect that life is ebbing down in you. You have
run away from life. You have played a trick, shabby trick. You have
balked at the game. You refuse to play. You have thrown your cards under
the table and run away to hide, here amongst your hills."

He tossed his straight hair back from his flashing eyes, and scarcely
interrupted to roll a long, brown, Mexican cigarette.

"But the gods know. It is an old trick. All the generations of man have
tried it . . . and lost. The gods know how to deal with such as you. To
pursue is to possess, and to possess is to be sated. And so you, in your
wisdom, have refused any longer to pursue. You have elected surcease.
Very well. You will become sated with surcease. You say you have escaped
satiety! You have merely bartered it for senility. And senility is
another name for satiety. It is satiety's masquerade. Bah!"