"It must be hushed up," said Dangle.
"It always seems to me that life is made up of individuals, of
individual cases. We must weigh each person against his or her
circumstances. General rules don't apply--"
"I often feel the force of that," said Widgery. "Those are my
rules. Of course my books--"
"It's different, altogether different," said Dangle. "A novel
deals with typical cases."
"And life is not typical," said Widgery, with immense profundity.
Then suddenly, unintentionally, being himself most surprised and
shocked of any in the room, Phipps yawned. The failing was
infectious, and the gathering having, as you can easily
understand, talked itself weary, dispersed on trivial pretences.
But not to sleep immediately. Directly Dangle was alone he began,
with infinite disgust, to scrutinise his darkling eye, for he was
a neat-minded little man in spite of his energy. The whole
business--so near a capture--was horribly vexatious. Phipps sat
on his bed for some time examining, with equal disgust, a collar
he would have thought incredible for Sunday twenty-four hours
before. Mrs. Milton fell a-musing on the mortality of even big,
fat men with dog-like eyes, and Widgery was unhappy because he
had been so cross to her at the station, and because so far he
did not feel that he had scored over Dangle. Also he was angry
with Dangle. And all four of them, being souls living very much
upon the appearances of things, had a painful, mental middle
distance of Botley derisive and suspicious, and a remoter
background of London humorous, and Surbiton speculative.
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