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. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. I arrived here with something less than five pounds in my pocket. But, perhaps Mr. But it is my fault. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack.
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