and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness,
prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they
have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross
of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in
his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself. The companionship of
Hayward was the worst possible thing for Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only
through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity.
He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament,
and his idleness for philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw everything a little
larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew
that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an idealist.