Through the sweet-scented dusky silence some small and very wakeful bird was trilling.

Great misty-winged moths came whirring and hovering among the blossoms, pale blurs in the darkness, and everywhere the drifting lamps of fireflies lighted and died out against the foliage.
The woman beside him sat with masked head bent and slightly turned from him; her restless hands worried her fan; her satin-shod feet were crossed and recrossed.
"What is the matter ?" he asked.
"Life.

It's all so very wrong." "Oh," he said, smiling, "so it's life that is amiss, not we!" "I suppose we are....

I suppose I am.

But, Duane"-- she turned and looked at him--"I haven't had much of a chance yet--to go very right or very wrong." "You've had chances enough for the latter," he said with an unpleasant laugh.