But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. “But if my manner tells! I cannot help it if that shows. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand. Gregory B.
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