“Tell him that he is mad. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. She looked up quickly. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. "But, pardon my intrusion. “So that’s the way it is.
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