Some of it he spent at Bland's, waging an
interminable contest at cribbage with Bland, coming up now and then
with the Blands to spend an evening at Hollister's.
"It's about a man who wrecked his life by systematically undermining
his own illusions about life," he answered one day Hollister's curious
inquiry as to what the new book was about, "and of how finally a very
assiduously cultivated illusion made him quite happy at last. Sound
interesting?"
"How could he deliberately cultivate an illusion?" Doris asked. "If
one's intelligence ever classifies a thing as an illusion, no
conscious effort will ever turn it into a reality."
"Oh, I didn't say _he_ cultivated the illusion," Lawanne laughed.
"Besides, do you really think that illusions are necessary to
happiness?" Doris persisted.
"To some people," Lawanne declared. "But let's not follow up that
philosophy. We're getting into deep water. Let's wade ashore. We'll
say whatever is is right, and let it go at that. It will be quite all
right for you to offer me a cup of tea, if your kitchen mechanic will
condescend.
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