"Well, it's one of the biggest, the most beautiful frauds in the world.
When you meet one sailing along in the Atlantic, you think it one of
the nicest, sweetest things you ever saw: it's so dazzlingly bright,
with its thousand and one colours glittering in the sunlight. You quite
fall in love with it, and it looks so harmless, so enticing, that
you're tempted to get quite close to it; which no doubt is amusing to
the iceberg, but is slightly embarrassing for you; for the iceberg is
on you before you know it, and--and there isn't enough left of you for
a decent funeral. That's Stafford all the way. He's so pleasant, so
frank, so lovable, that you think him quite harmless; but while you're
admiring his confounded ingratiating ways, while you're growing
enthusiastic about his engaging tricks--he's the best rider, the best
dancer, the best shot--oh, but you must have heard of him!--he is
bearing down upon you; your heart goes under, and he--ah, well, he just
sails over you smiling, quite unconscious of having brought you to
everlasting smash."
"You are indeed a friend," she said with languid irony.
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