I had fallen in love, I had made an enemy, and I had matched myself against men who possessed a knowledge of some of the secret forces of life, without ever calculating my own strength.

And yet I seemed to be beating the air.

Were not my thoughts concerning Voltaire's schemes about Miss Forrest all fancy?
Was not I the victim of some Quixotic ideas?
Was not the creation of Cervantes' brain about as sensible as I?
Surely I, a man of thirty, ought to know better?
And yet some things were terribly real.

My love for Gertrude Forrest was real; my walk and talk with her that day were real.

Ay, and the hateful glitter of Voltaire's eyes was real too; his talk with Kaffar behind the shrubs the night before was real.