‘Here you, Pottiswick. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. ’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. ” “As one friend to another. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. Thus, in a few minutes, had this happy family been plunged into the depths of misery.
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