“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.
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