' And then the
fo'c'sle--men packed in like herrings."
She was leaning over the table, making a labyrinth with the
currants from a cake and listening intently. He stopped
politely, feeling that he was talking too much. But, "Go on,
please do," she commanded, and he told simply, seeing it more
and more, of Satan and the Grenadier, of the fairies who had
beckoned to him from the Irish coast hills, and the comradeship
of Morton.
She interrupted only once, murmuring, "My dear, it's a good
thing you're articulate, anyway--" which didn't seem to have
any bearing on hay-bales.
She sent him away with a light "It's been a good party, hasn't
it, caveman? (If you _are_ a caveman.) Call for me tomorrow at
three. We'll go to the Tate Gallery."
She touched his hand in the fleetingest of grasps.
"Yes. Good night, Miss Nash," he quavered.
A morning of planning his conduct so that in accompanying Istra
Nash to the Tate Gallery he might be the faithful shadow and
beautiful transcript of Mittyford, Ph.
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