Mrs. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. Hill would have followed her, but Mrs.
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