'And there are others,' Charles went on. 'I never forget them. I meet
them in the streets and they look horrible--like beetles.' 'I believe
you're mad,' Henrietta said earnestly. 'It's not sense.'
'What is sense?' Henrietta could not tell him. She looked at him, a
little afraid, but excited by this proximity to danger. And I thought
you would understand.'
'Of course I do.' She could not bear to let go of anything which might
do her credit. 'I do. But you exaggerate. And Mr. Sales--' She
hesitated, and in doing so she remembered to be angry with Charles
Batty for maligning him. 'How can you judge Mr. Sales?' she asked with
scorn. 'He is a man.' 'And what am I?' Charles demanded.
'You're--queer,' she said.
'Yes'--his face twisted curiously--'I suppose if I shot things and
chased them, you'd like me better. But I can't--not even for that, but
perhaps, some day--' He seemed to lose himself in the vagueness of his
thoughts.
She finished his sentence gaily, for after all, it was absurd to
quarrel with him. 'Some day we'll go to a concert.'
He recovered himself. 'More than that,' he said. He nodded his head
with unexpected vigour. 'You'll see.'
She gazed at him. It was wonderful to think of all the things that
might happen to a person who was only twenty-one, but she hastily
corrected her thoughts. What could happen to her? In a few short days
events had rushed together and exhausted themselves at their source!
There was nothing left.
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