That's all I've got; I really don't know that I want more." Nedda clasped her hands.
"I like that," she said; "only--what is perfection, Mr.Cuthcott ?" Again he emitted that deep little sound.
"Ah!" he repeated, "what is perfection?
Awkward, that--isn't it ?" "Is it"-- Nedda rushed the words out--"is it always to be sacrificing yourself, or is it--is it always to be--to be expressing yourself ?" "To some--one; to some--the other; to some--half one, half the other." "But which is it to me ?" "Ah! that you've got to find out for yourself.

There's a sort of metronome inside us--wonderful, sell-adjusting little machine; most delicate bit of mechanism in the world--people call it conscience--that records the proper beat of our tempos.

I guess that's all we have to go by." Nedda said breathlessly: "Yes; and it's frightfully hard, isn't it ?" "Exactly," Mr.Cuthcott answered.

"That's why people devised religions and other ways of having the thing done second-hand.

We all object to trouble and responsibility if we can possibly avoid it.