"I suppose I ought to enjoy the joke of what's going on here," I wrote, "but somehow it doesn't amuse me.

Pessimism on the contrary possesses me and cynicism deeply engages.

I positively feel my own flesh sore from the brass nails in Neil Paraday's social harness.

The house is full of people who like him, as they mention, awfully, and with whom his talent for talking nonsense has prodigious success.

I delight in his nonsense myself; why is it therefore that I grudge these happy folk their artless satisfaction?
Mystery of the human heart--abyss of the critical spirit! Mrs.Wimbush thinks she can answer that question, and as my want of gaiety has at last worn out her patience she has given me a glimpse of her shrewd guess.