I assure you I wouldn't be one of the sloppy, unselfish people the world is full of for anything." "As a source of gratification isn't it rather limited ?" Kendal asked.

He was thinking of the extra drop of nervous fluid in Americans that he had been reading about in the afternoon, and wondering if it often had this development.
"I don't quite know what you mean," Elfrida returned.
"It isn't a source of gratification, it's a channel.

And it intensifies everything so that I don't care how little comes that way.

If there's anything of me left when I die it will be that little fierce flame.

And when I do the tiniest thing, write the shortest sentence that rings _true_, see a beauty or a joy which the common herd pass by, I have my whole life in the flame, and it becomes my soul--I'm sure I have no other! "When you say that there is no real pleasure in the world that does not come through art," Elfrida went on again, widening her eyes seriously, "don't you feel as if you were uttering something religious--part of a creed--as the Mussulman feels when he says there is no God but one God, and Mohammed is his prophet?
I do." "I never say it," Kendal returned, with a smile.