It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.

Joan was nothing more than a friend. He was not in love with her. One does not fall in love with a girl whom one has met only three times. One is attracted, yes; but one does not fall in love. A moment's reflection enabled him to diagnose his sensations correctly. This odd impulse to leap across the compartment and kiss Joan was not love. It was merely the natural desire of a good-hearted young man to be decently chummy with his species.

The real objection to the great majority of cats is their insufferable air of superiority.

If there is one thing I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I wish to air mine.

His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.

I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.

Routine is the death to heroism.