“It might—it might.”
“My uncle always followed your advice?”
“Ah ... implicitly.”
“He did not grow rich,” said Carmel.
“He lived,” said Mr. Fownes, and blinked his little eyes as he turned his placid gaze full upon her.
“I think you have made yourself clear, Mr. Fownes. I shall think over what you have said—and you will know my decision.”
“Consider well—er—from all angles.... Mountain came to Mohammed....”
He commenced to warp himself away from the railing, and slowly, ponderously, testing the security of each foot before he trusted his weight to it, he moved toward the door. There he paused, turned his bulk, the whole of him, for it was quite impossible for him to turn his head without his shoulders going along with it, and smiled the most placid smile Carmel ever saw. “Er—I am a widower,” he said....
Carmel remained standing, her eyes following him as he turned up the street. “What’s underneath it all?” she said, aloud. “What’s it all about?”
Evan Pell turned in his chair and said, sharply, “Textbooks have this merit at least—they can instruct in the simplest rules of logic.”