But we people in real life, we just go on and on in a badly constructed, plotless sort of way with no villains, no interesting situations, no climaxes, no ensemble.

No, we grow old and irritable and meaner and meaner; we lose our good looks and digestions, and we die in hopeless discord with the unity required in a dollar and a half novel by a master of modern fiction." "But some among us amass fortunes," suggested Sylvia, laughing.
"But we don't live happy ever after.

Nobody ever had enough money in real life." "Some fall in love," observed Sylvia, musing.
"And they are not content, silly!" "Why?
Because nobody ever had enough love in real life," mocked Sylvia.
"You have said it, child.

That is the malady of the world, and nobody knows it until some pretty ninny like you babbles the truth.

And that is why we care for those immortals in romance, those fortunate lovers who, in fable, are given and give enough of love; those magic shapes in verse and tale whose hearts are satisfied when the mad author of their being inks his last period and goes to dinner." Sylvia laughed awhile, then, chin on wrist, sat musing there, muffled in her furs.
"As for love, I think I should be moderate in the asking, in the giving.
A little--to flavour routine--would be sufficient for me I fancy." "You know so much about it," observed Mrs.Ferrall ironically.
"I am permitted to speculate, am I not ?" "Certainly.