He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. A few days ago I saw him leave your house. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not.
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