” “You have been to her?” he asked. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. This ice was used for refrigerator purposes and for McClintock's evening peg. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river.
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