He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She had one idea, she found, very clear in her mind—that she would get a Research Scholarship, and so contrive another year in the laboratory. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.
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