The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. 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. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door.
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