She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. He got off on it. Earles declared. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. You cannot refuse me this. He hoped he would get to see the two suitors face off over Lucy. I want you to think of me just as if I was a man, and quite outside marriage altogether. Spurling and Austin at their evening meal, with Caliban in attendance.
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