Right now my heart is occupied. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. That’s why I chucked Manning. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. I told you that at the outset. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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