In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. She knew the truth of it all right. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Ever and again Capes appealed to Ann Veronica. . With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction.
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