It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. The future was not so black. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. It’s that father of yours you take after, no question. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness.
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