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Violence has to be done to the plain narrative; historical statement has to be made only a mask. And the only reason for it is that there are difficulties not yet cleared. Here the artifices are absent, and the elements surpassed."
Not the old buildings, not the old trees, not even the old memories. Clustering traditions had fled in the white blaze of electricity; the quaint brick walks, with their rich colour in the sunlight, were beginning to disappear beneath the expressionless mask of concrete.
"My dear Irene, have you, then, no love for me? I have hoped and believed that you hid your love behind your cold mask of proud silence. You must, you do love me, my beautiful cousin!" "You do not believe your own words; you are obliged to know better.
Heatherbloom marched on like a knight of old for steadfastness of purpose. His lips veiled a covert smile, as if behind the hard mask of life he saw something a little odd and whimsical, appealing to some secret sense of humor that even hunger could not wholly annihilate.
Hiram bounded to his feet and confronted the man into whose face he had thrown the pine knot, and who now was rushing him, brandishing a revolver. Hiram's blow had knocked the mask from this man's face, but it was a face that Hiram had never seen before. A shot barked dully in the heavy atmosphere of the forest, and the smoke hung in a little ball.
"I hope you won't mind," he announced, but in the easiest tones; "we can't obey you this morning. Miss Bocock's gone off to the club with Imogen, and Sir Basil is going to take you for a drive." Valerie, standing on the last step of the stair, a little above him, paused in the act of adjusting her glove, to stare at him. Easy as his tone was he couldn't hide from her that he wore a mask.
There was a door to the place, too, but the door was open and the key was in the lock. The ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight swept once around the interior and rested on an antique, ponderous safe. Under the mask Jimmie Dale's lips parted in a smile that seemed almost apologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little more than an insult to a trained cracksman.
In these serious walks probably he was divesting himself of many scenic and some real vanities weaning himself from the frivolities of the lesser and the greater theatre doing gentle penance for a life of no very reprehensible fooleries, taking off by degrees the buffoon mask which he might feel he had worn too long and rehearsing for a more solemn cast of part.
At mention of this name the man slowly lowered his gun and drew back a step, opening the door a trifle wider. "Lord Saint Olave?" he muttered in surprise. "Lord Saint Olave here at this time o' night! Wantin' ter see " He removed the black cloth mask that had hidden his face "Wantin' ter see me?" "Yes, Nick. That's why I'm here," returned Kiddie. "I want to see you kind of private.
I remember that I used to say that I thought I could bear a real tragedy if it came to me with purple pall and a mask of noble sorrow, but that the dreadful thing about modernity was that it put tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so that the great realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or lacking in style. It is quite true about modernity. It has probably always been true about actual life.
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