It is
another to sell the same worthless commodity for money. I began, to my
curious discomfort, to suspect that life had a meaning after all.
CHAPTER XVIII
One day I had walked from Cadogan Gardens with a gadfly phrase of Lola's
tormenting my ears:
"You're not quite alive even yet."
I had spent most of the day over a weekly article for James's high-toned
periodical, using the same old shibboleths, proclaiming Gilead to be the
one place for balm, juggling with the same old sophistries, and proving
that Pope must have been out of his mind when he declared that an honest
man was the noblest work of God, seeing that nobler than the most honest
man was the disingenuous government held up to eulogy; and I had gone
tired, dispirited, out of conceit with myself to Lola for tea and
consolation. I had not been the merriest company. I had spoken gloomily
of the cosmos, and when Adolphus the Chow dog had walked down the room
in his hind legs, I had railed at the futility of canine effort. To
Lola, who had put forth all her artillery of artless and harmless
coquetry in voice and gesture, in order to lure my thoughts into
pleasanter ways, I exhibited the querulous grumpiness of a spoiled
village octogenarian.
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