I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. But men are so careless, there's no trusting anything to them! However, I must try to brazen it out. Her anger died and she eyed him. Run along now; but return in half an hour. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped.
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