"Yes," replied Horace gravely, "Hume has often been considered
soporific---"

"Who's your friend--and will he die?"

Then of a sudden Horace Tarbox rose slenderly and began to pace
the room with his hands in his pockets. This was his other
gesture.

"I don't care for this," he said as if he were talking to
himself--"at all. Not that I mind your being here--I don't.
You're quite a pretty little thing, but I don't like Charlie
Moon's sending you up here. Am I a laboratory experiment on which
the janitors as well as the chemists can make experiments? Is my
intellectual development humorous in any way? Do I look like the
pictures of the little Boston boy in the comic magazines? Has
that callow ass, Moon, with his eternal tales about his week in
Paris, any right to---"

"No," interrupted Marcia emphatically. "And you're a sweet boy.
Come here and kiss me."

Horace stopped quickly in front of her.

"Why do you want me to kiss you?" he asked intently, "Do you just
go round kissing people?"

"Why, yes," admitted Marcia, unruffled. "'At's all life is. Just
going round kissing people."