"What does he say?" roared the long drover. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. “Curious case,” said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in a way he had. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Mr. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. He looked eager and flushed and troubled.
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