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You're just like a man I used to know at Newcastle. You can't
think what an ass he was. A sort of eugenical crank, who talked about
the City Beautiful where everybody would lead regenerated lives like a
flock of prize sheep. Everything sanitary and soulful; nothing but pure
men and pure women. An addle-headed theorist, he was, till a woman got
hold of him--one of the other kind, you know--and gave him something
practical to think about. That's what will happen to you, Phipps. I can
see it coming."
"I've been analysing myself lately. I find I have too much romance in
my composition, as it is."
"What do you call romance?"
Denis thought awhile. Then he said:
"When a man invests ordinary people or objects or occurrences with an
extraordinary interest. When he reads attributes into them which they
don't possess, or exaggerates those which they do possess. When he
looks at a person and can't help thinking that there is nobody on earth
quite like her."
"Too celestial for me, on the whole.


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