"The fact is," said Salwey, taking off his hat and throwing it on the grass, "I cannot stand anything that demands sternly concentrated attention. I don't want to hear of the 'over man,' nor even the 'sub-conscious brain'; on the other hand, I find the reading of 'shockers' requires an amount of physical courage, in which I am deficient—and—for love stories—I have—to borrow the American terms, 'no use.'"
"So, you see, he will not be easy to suit!" supplemented Mrs. Lepell.
"Oh, yes," he protested. "He is merely a simple, unsophisticated police wallah."
"Not so very simple, Brian. And you have some use for love stories. Do you recollect how you borrowed and gobbled up 'A Princess of Thule,' and sent it back horribly disfigured and reeking of tobacco?"
"I offered to replace it——"
"To keep it—as I understood——"
"For my part, I much prefer 'Macleod of Dare,'" declared Verona.
This remark at once started an animated discussion.
And now that the conversation circled round books and pictures, poor Pussy was completely out of her depth, and could contribute nothing beyond the language of the eye, and spasmodic gigglings.
Meanwhile, as Brian Salwey talked to her charming low-voiced sister, he felt figuratively swept off his feet; it was impossible to realise that this girl was the daughter of the sub-manager and "Mother Chan."; that her great-grandmother had been a Temple girl from the West coast, who had sung and danced before the gods. His brain actually reeled as he endeavoured to assimilate this fact, with the beautiful face, the well-cut, firm lips, that were imparting her impressions of the recent Passion play at Oberammergau. Never for a moment did she appear to recall that terrible scene by the river, and her own pitiful cry, "Let me die! Oh, let me die!"