“Are you a special sort of clergyman,” she said, after a pause, and looking down her nose at him, “or do you go to the Universities?” “Oh!” he said, profoundly. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips.
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