It was so true.
Common sense might have screwed him to a thirty shillings-a-week desk: the fantastic had brought him to that very house, a candidate for Parliament, in a thousand-guinea motor car.

On the other hand--and his laughter faded from his eyes--the fantastic in his life was dead.
Henceforward common sense would hold him in her cold and unstimulating clasp.

He said something of the sort to Jane.

Once more she ejaculated "Rot, rubbish and bosh!" and they quarrelled as they had done in their childhood.
"You talk as if I didn't know you inside out, my dear Paul," she said in her clear, unsmiling way.

"Listen.