Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. A lovely, fetching girl. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. " "Stand out of earshot," rejoined his leader.
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