“But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. \" He looked crestfallen. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. How could he have betrayed her so cruelly? How could he lie and claim her as dead? Sebastian studied her carefully as she refused to cry and became like a pillar of stone.
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