“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. . I was extremely subtle—in fact, as devious as Melusine. "Mother—dear mother! Once again, I beseech you to listen to me.
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