"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. He understood. 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. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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