He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. That is my way, my dear. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere.
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