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\" \"Good night, Mom. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. He kissed her lightly on the lips. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. . The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. "I generally take a party. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. All concerned in the dark transaction must have perished. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. ” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me.
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