It came in when the sun-flower went out. I preferred
the sun-flower; it was more amusing.
MARION. And stupid people, I suppose, will come in when the clever
people go out. I prefer the clever. They have better manners.
You're exceedingly disagreeable. [She leaves the piano, and,
throwing herself upon the couch, takes up a book.]
DAN. I know I am. The night has been with me also. It follows
one and asks questions.
MARION. What questions has it been asking you?
DAN. Many--and so many of them have no answer. Why am I a
useless, drifting log upon the world's tide? Why have all the
young men passed me? Why am I, at thirty-nine, let us say, with
brain, with power, with strength--nobody thinks I am worth
anything, but I am--I know it. I might have been an able editor,
devoting every morning from ten till three to arranging the affairs
of the Universe, or a popular politician, trying to understand what
I was talking about, and to believe it. And what am I? A
newspaper reporter, at three-ha'pence a line--I beg their pardon,
its occasionally twopence.
MARION. Does it matter?
DAN. Does it matter! Does it matter whether a Union Jack or a
Tricolor floats over the turrets of Badajoz? yet we pour our blood
into its ditches to decide the argument.
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