"No. Not at all," he disclaimed. "Only--well, out here--alone--I don't
understand."

"Can't you understand that if one had happened to drop out of the world
by chance, it might be desirable to stay out for a while?"

"For _you_? No; I can't understand that."

"What about yourself?" she challenged with a swift, amused gleam. "You
are certainly staying out of the world here."

"This is my world."

Her eyes and voice dropped. "Truly?" she murmured. Then, as he made no
reply, "It isn't much of a world for a man."

To this his response touched the heights of the unexpected. He stretched
out his arm toward the near window through which could be seen the white
splendor of Mount Carstairs, dim in the wreathing murk.

"Lo! For there, amidst the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier
movement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, Life and death,"
he quoted.

Her eyes glowed with sheer, incredulous astonishment. "How came you by
that Stevenson?" she demanded. "Are you poet as well as recluse?"

"I met him once."