"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. “Reuben, come here. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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