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. Spurling in alarm. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. . ’ The sword was released to slide back into its scabbard.
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