"I can certainly testify to the
cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it."
"I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about,"
said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously.
"Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?"
"In my present environment."
"Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings."
Davenport shook his head. "My immediate environment would still be the
same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my old,
tiresome, unsuccessful self."
"But if you got about more among mankind,--not that I know what your
habits are at present, but I should imagine--" Larcher hesitated.
"You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary," said Davenport.
"That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'--to
fall back on Hamlet again--at least not from my present point of view."
"'Nor woman neither'?" quoted Larcher, interrogatively.
"'No, nor woman neither,'" said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming upon
his face. "I don't know what your experience may have been. We have only
our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing from
women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and are
unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is to
be worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love,
with a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment they
are bored with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injured
if the man complains.
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