He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance. I don’t know what has come over me. ” She lingered over her tea, and glancing around, a sudden reflection on the change in her surroundings from the scene of her last night’s supper brought a faint, humorous smile to her lips. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony.
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