How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train. I do not wish to blow off a head, you understand. “I am too much in earnest,” he answered, “to be able to take this matter lightly. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. 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. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men.
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