" "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. . Her heart thudded. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you.
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