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But the world, Auberon, the real world, is not run on these hobbies. It goes on great brutal wheels of facts wheels on which you are the butterfly; and Wayne is the fly on the wheel." Auberon's eyes looked frankly at the other's. "Thank you, James; what you say is true.
In other words, we live their experience, for the time, and that's hardly escaping from life. Florentia. I'm not at all particular as to what you call it. Call it an escape from the common, the prosaic, the immediate. Dorriforth. You couldn't put it better. That's the life that art, with Auberon's permission, gives us; that's the distinction it confers.
"Well," said Buck, coolly, "how did they? You ought to know." "I don't know; I can't describe," said the other, drumming on the table. "It seemed like this. We were six hundred, and marched with those damned poleaxes of Auberon's the only weapons we've got. We marched two abreast. We went up Holland Walk, between the high palings which seemed to me to go straight as an arrow for Pump Street.
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