For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. But he had now lost the precise spot; and thinking he had examined the drain, turned his attention to another quarter. Manning questioned whether when they were bad they were really beautiful or when they were beautiful bad. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. The likeness was ridiculous. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone.
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