midnight
Like that strange , intolerable , vulgar , attractive , intermittently inspired creature , who presented himself at life 's roulette-table , not less various in his own person than were the varying turns he courted , unaccountable as chance , baffling as fate , changeable as luck . Indeed he was like life itself , a thing you loved and hated , grew weary of and embraced , shrank from and pursued . To see him then was in a way to look on at life , to be in contact with him was to feel the throb of its movement . In her midnight musings the man seemed somehow to cease to be odious because he ceased to be individual , to be no longer incomprehensible because he was no longer apart , because he became to her less himself and more the expression and impersonation of an instinct that in her own blood ran riot and held festivity . `` I 'm having moments , like Mr. Quisanté himself ! '' she said with a sudden laugh . First to the City , then to the doctor , then to the House , then to the dinner of the Imperial League ; this was Quisanté 's programme for the second Wednesday in April .