“I wish you’d stick to your daubs, Crowdie, and leave my English alone!” said Griggs. “It sells just as well as your portraits. No—what I mean is that just when fate is twisting the tail of the century—”
“Really, my dear fellow—that’s a little too bad, you know! To compare the century to a refractory cow!”
“Crowdie,” said Griggs, gravely, “in a former state I was a wolf, and you were a rabbit, and I gobbled you up. If you go on interrupting me, I’ll do it again and destroy your Totem.”
Katharine started suddenly and stared at Griggs. It seemed so strange that he should have used the very words—wolf and rabbit—which had been in her mind more than once during the morning.
“What is it, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, in some surprise. “You look startled.”
“Oh—nothing!” Katharine hastened to say. “I happened to have thought of wolves and rabbits, and it seemed odd that you should mention them.”
“Write to the Psychical Research people,” suggested Crowdie. “It’s a distinct case of thought-transference.”
“I daresay it is,” said Griggs, indifferently. “Everything is transferable—why shouldn’t thoughts be?”
“Everything?” repeated Crowdie. “Even the affections?”