‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. “I’m thirsty. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. Sure Mike!" At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his chief, explaining every detail of the fizzle. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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