Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. I want to know who sent you those. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. ‘Aye, miss, like a shadow. Mr. Everything. Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men! He relaxed. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd.
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