Julia's lips were tightly compressed. She made no reply. Mr. Foley glanced back at her curiously as they stepped into the car.
"What a singularly forbidding young woman!" he remarked.
Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders. It is given to women to understand much! . . . The car glided off. As they neared the corner of the Square, they passed a stout, foreign-looking man with an enormous head, a soft grey hat set far back, a quantity of fair hair, and the ingenuous, eager look of a child. He was hurrying towards the corner house and scarcely glanced in their direction. Mr. Foley, however, leaned forward with interest.
"Who is that strange-looking person?" Elisabeth asked.
Mr. Foley became impressive.
"One of the greatest writers and philosophers of the day," he replied.
"I expect he is on his way to see Maraton. That was Henry Selingman."
CHAPTER XXVIII
Selingman took little heed of the cordon around Maraton. He brushed them all to one side, and when at last confronted by the final barrier, in the shape of Julia, he only patted her gently upon the back.
"Ah, but my dear child," he exclaimed, "you do not understand! Listen. I raise my voice, I shout—like this—'Maraton, it is I who am here—Selingman!' You see, he will come if he is within hearing. You know of me, you pale-faced child? You have heard of Selingman, is it not so?"
Before Julia could answer, the door of the study was opened.