Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. "I didn't think you'd been so easily fooled, Joan. Ladies with weapon’s on ’em. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. My agent is here, and he has brought his contract for me to sign. I see now that you make a game with me indeed. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least.
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