To write of the past was not what he desired.

Reality was what he longed for, things that he had seen.

Yet how to make this compatible with romance.

He rose, putting on his hat, offering the old man a cigarette.

The centenarian accepted with the air of a grandee, and extended his horn snuff-box.
Presley shook his head.
"I was born too late for that," he declared, "for that, and for many other things.