“Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. 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. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become.
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