“I know perfectly well what you mean,” he said eagerly. “Philosophy to you, and to me, too, isn’t science at all! It’s life winnowed and heightened. It’s the essence of life caught on the wing. It’s life framed ⁠ ⁠… framed in room-windows⁠ ⁠… in carriage-windows⁠ ⁠… in mirrors⁠ ⁠… in our ‘brown-studies,’ when we look up from absorbing books⁠ ⁠… in waking-dreams⁠—I do know perfectly well what you mean!”

Christie drew up her feet beneath her on the sofa and turned her head, so that all he could see of her face was its delicate profile, a profile which, in that particular position, reminded him of a portrait of the philosopher Descartes!

He changed the conversation back to himself. “It’s queer,” he remarked, “that I can confide in you so completely about Gerda.”

“Why?” she threw out.

“Don’t you see that what I’m admitting is an unscrupulous desire to make love to your young friend?”