"Possibly," suggested the other, puffing fitfully, "possibly, then, my unclean spirit has gained control of some healthy, human soul which it dominates."
"Possibly you're talking awful rot," returned the other, good-humouredly but a trifle impatiently.
"Possibly I am."
The poet smiled softly and leaned back, making a lovely thing of the corner where he lounged.
"Healthy people often have a liking for me," he observed. "You, for instance—the healthiest man I know. And the healthiest woman—Miss Thayer."
"That'll do."
"What do you mean?"
"That you mustn't speak of her."
"Why?"
"You ought to know."