“No.” Morosely.
“Where’d you meet her?” asked Hamilton. “That’s a new one on me. Paris?”
McCall nodded. He sipped a highball, ran his fingers through his hair and began in a low, vibrant voice, his handsome boyish face flushed.
“The agèd pilgrim hastens on the road,
Nor stops to pluck the flowers by the way
Lest Death o’ertake him ’ere the close of day
And find, too late, unreached the soul’s abode.
“I, too, a pilgrim, love, with quick foot strode
Along Life’s highway: Often would I stay
To live a blissful hour, forever. ‘Nay.