"Oh."
"He is coming out here to visit—father—I believe."
"Oh. An artist; and doubtless of mature years."
"He is a mineralogist by profession," she said, "—and somewhat young."
"Oh."
"Twenty-four years old," she added. Upon her pretty face was an absent expression, vaguely pleasant. Her blue eyes became dreamy and exquisitely remote.
I pondered deeply for a while:
"Wilna?" I said.
"Yes, Mr. Smith?" as though aroused from agreeable meditation.
But I didn't know exactly what to say, and I remained uneasily silent, thinking about that man Green and his twenty-four years, and his profession, and the bottom of the crater, and Wilna—and striving to satisfy myself that there was no logical connection between any of these.