"To see how he is and then to do other things," Jowett answered.
There was silence for a moment in which they moved slowly forward, and
then she said: "You were at Barbazon's last night?"
"When that Gipsy son of a dog gave him away!" he assented. "I never
heard anything like the speech Ingolby made. He had them in the throat.
The Gipsy would have had nothing out of it, if it hadn't been for the
horseshoe. But in spite of the giveaway, Ingolby was getting them where
they were soft-fairly drugging them with good news. You never heard such
dope. My, he was smooth! The golden, velvet truth it was, too. That's
the only kind he has in stock; and they were sort of stupefied and locoed
as they chewed his word-plant. Cicero must have been a saucy singer of
the dictionary, and Paul the Apostle had a dope of his own you couldn't
buy, but the gay gamut that Ingolby run gives them all the cold good-
bye."
She held herself very still as he spoke. There was, however, a strange,
lonely look in her eyes. The man lying asleep in the darkness of body
and mind yonder was not really her lover, for he had said no word direct
of love to her, and she knew him so little, how could she love him? Yet
there was something between them which had its authority over their
lives, overcoming even that maiden modesty which was in contrast to the
bold, physical thing she had done in running the Carillon Rapids those
centuries ago when she was young and glad-wistfully glad.
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