"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. ” Courtlaw turned abruptly to Brendon. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. " "You have always spoken it?" "Yes; except for some native. " "No more of this," rejoined Thames, "or we shall quarrel. “It was a phase,” she said. “By Jove!” he said, “there is something direct about you. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart.
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