“Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. Yes; she had heard the music the night before. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. I don’t think of you as a kid. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. E. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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