The past--the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill; the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved; the days before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather-all these had faded like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. He did not remember.

After all, life hasn't much to offer except youth, and I suppose for older people, the love of youth in others.

She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.

You remind me of a smoked cigarette.

Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word.

Life cracked like ice!

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.