"We never lose illusions; we mislay 'em," he suggested; "and then we are pretty careful to mislay only that particular illusion which inconveniences us." He jerked his heavy head in Malcourt's direction.

"Nobody clings more frantically to illusions than your unbaked cynic; Louis, you're not nearly such a devil of a fellow as you imagine you are." Malcourt smiled easily and looked out over the waves.
"Cynicism is old-fashioned," he said; "dogma is up to date.

Credo! I believe in a personal devil, virtuous maidens in bowers, and rosewood furniture.

As for illusions I cherish as many as you do!" He turned with subtle impudence to Wayward.

"And the world is littered with the shattered fragments." "It's littered with pups, too," observed Wayward, turning on his heel.
And he walked away, limping, his white mess jacket a pale spot in the gloom.
Malcourt looked after him; an edge of teeth glimmering beneath his full upper lip.
"It might be more logical if he'd cut out his alcohol before he starts in as a gouty marine missionary," he observed.