“Does he write stories?”
“No, metaphysics, but he knows everything——”
“What is your name?”
“Musser—Pidge Musser. Not Pidge, really. Pandora is my name, but every one calls me Pidge. My father started it.”
“Is his name Adolph Musser?”
In the dimness, the girl’s face looked like a blur of white; a little stretched, too, it appeared just now.
“Yes, that’s his name,” she said in a hopeless tone. “So you know him, too?”
“I heard him lecture once.”
“I suppose you ‘fell for’ him? They all do.”
The woman’s black eyes twinkled. “The lecture was on cosmic consciousness,” she said. “I remember distinctly that Mr. Musser outlined four paths of approach.”