Timely to catch the sense of these latter lines, Pagan returned, his
countenance of a clown radiant with good nature restored by the
fragrance of four eight-inch glasses on the tray beneath his nose.
"The dilute laughter of the peasants of Scotland," he announced,
presenting the tray to Folly and Liane--"guaranteed to cure every
heartache born of pining for a past that, if the truth were known,
probably wasn't half so pleasant as the present--Prohibition and
everything!" He presented the tray to Lanyard in turn, then, determined
at all costs to win the centre of the stage, struck an absurd
declamatory attitude. "To tonight and tomorrow," he toasted--"to hell
with yesterday! Why waste good time mourning that which is immortal,
anyway? All of yesterday that mattered we carry with us, imperishably
enshrined in our hearts. After all, what is the present more than the
past plus? What man was yesterday, he is today, with something added.
Eh, Mr. Lanyard?"
"Or subtracted."
"I disagree"--Pagan made him a formal salute--"with all due respect. Man
adds daily to the sum of his experiences, which sum he is; but he can
never subtract from that sum one iota of what he has been. The peasant
who becomes a financier remains at heart a peasant still."
"A pretty thought," Liane interpolated with earnest interest. "But, to a
woman, somewhat unsettling, is it not?"