“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“If I mean anything at all, which is always rather doubtful,” he replied, candidly, “I mean that Beveridge and his humbug were creatures of an occasion, just as Bunker and his are of another. The one occasion is passed, and with it the first entertaining gentleman has vanished into space. The second gentleman will doubtless follow when his time is up. In fact, I may be said to be a series of dissolving views.”
“Then isn’t what you said true?”
“I’m afraid you must be more specific; you see I’ve talked so much.”
“What you said about yourself—and your work.”
He shook his head humorously. “I have no means of checking my statements.”
She looked at him in a troubled way, and then her eyes fell.
“At least,” she said, “you won’t—you mustn’t treat me as—as you did.”
“As Beveridge did? Certainly not; Bunker is the soul of circumspection. Besides, he doesn’t require to get out of an asylum.”
“Then it was only to get away?” she cried, turning scarlet.