"Now really, Hesper, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she
cried. "You to put on the pelican and the sparrow, with all the
world before you, and all the men in it at your feet!"
"A pack of fools!" remarked Hesper, with a calmness which in
itself was scorn. "I don't deny it--but amusing fools--you must
allow that!"
"They don't amuse me."
"That's your fault: you won't be amused. The more foolish they
are, the more amusing I find them."
"I am sick of it all. Nothing amuses me. How can it, when there
is nothing behind it? You can't live on amusement. It is the
froth on water an inch deep, and then the mud!"
"I declare, misery makes a poetess of you! But as to the mud, I
don't mind a little mud. It is only dirt, and has its part in the
inevitable peck, I hope."
"_I_ don't mind mud so long as you can keep out of it. But
when one is over head and ears in it, I should like to know what
life is worth," said Hesper, heedless that the mud was of her own
making. "I declare, Sepia," she went on, drawling the
declaration, "if I were to be asked whether I would go on or not--"
"You would ask a little time to make up your mind, Hesper, I
fancy," suggested Sepia, for Hesper had paused. As she did not
reply, Sepia resumed.
"Which is your favorite poison, Hesper?" she said.
"When I choose, it will be to use," replied Hesper.
"Rhyming, at last!" said Sepia.
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