Clippings

“He was the forerunner.”
“That’s what you said in the storm. I’ve thought since: perhaps I am only a forerunner, too.”

Perhaps, I thought, while her words still hung in the air between us like a wisp of tobacco smoke — a thought to fade and vanish like smoke without a trace — perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; a hill of many invisible crests; doors that open as in a dream to reveal only a further stretch of carpet and another door; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.

Adam came and sat next to Nina.
“Hullo,” they said to each other.
“My dear, do look at Mary Mouse’s new young man,” said Nina.
Adam looked and saw that Mary was sitting next to the Maharajah of Pukkapore.
“I call that a pretty pair,” he said.
“Oh, how bored I feel,” said Nina.