" "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny. It was an impulse. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. "Not dangerously, I hope," returned Thames; "but fly—save yourself.
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