"I do hate these sorts of mysterious, philosophising women, don't you?
The old days must have been ever so much better! When it was all poetry and romance and beautiful idealism! When Dante and Beatrice were possible!" Gwent smiled sourly.
"They never WERE possible!" he retorted--"Dante was, like all poets, a regular humbug.

Any peg served to hang his stuff on,--from a child of nine to a girl of eighteen.

The stupidest thing ever written is what he called his 'New Life' or 'Vita Nuova.' I read it once, and it made me pretty nigh sick.

Think of all that twaddle about Beatrice 'denying him her most gracious salutation'! That any creature claiming to be a man could drivel along in such a style beats me altogether!" "It's perfectly lovely!" declared Miss Herbert--"You've no taste in literature, Mr.Gwent!" "I've no taste for humbug"-- he answered--"That's so! I guess I know the difference between tragedy and comedy, even when I see them side by side." He flicked a long burnt ash from his cigar.

"I've had a bit of comedy with you this morning--now I'm going to take up tragedy! I tell you there's more written in Jack's dead face than in all Dante!" "The tragedy of a lost gamble for money!" she said, with a scornful uplift of her eyebrows.
He nodded.
"That's so! It upsets the mental balance of a man more than a lost gamble for love!" And he walked away.
Lydia Herbert, left to herself, played idly with the leaves of the vine that clambered about the high wooden columns of the verandah where she stood, admiring the sparkle of her diamond bangle which, like a thin circlet of dewdrops, glittered on her slim wrist.