Off came the lady's glasses, never to be donned again in fancy or in
life; and Varney was ready to admit that there might be ladies in
Hunston who were worse-looking than she by far. In the Stygian blackness
he collided with a chair and paused, leaning upon the back of it.

"I'd like extremely to have you hum. From your voice, I--I'm sure that
you do it div--awfully well. But since you seem to leave it to me, I'd
honestly rather have you do something else."

"Yes?"

Larry laughed. "It's a game. A--an evening pastime--a sort of novel
guessing contest. Played by strangers in the dark. You see--I must tell
you that ever since you first spoke, my mind has been giving me little
thumbnail sketches--each one different from the last--of what you look
like."

She said nothing to this; so he laughed again.

"Oh, it's not mere curiosity, you know. It's purely a scientific matter
with me. The science of deduction. The voice, you know, tells little or
nothing. I may say that I have made something of a study of voices, and
have discovered that they always go by contraries. For this reason," he
laughed gayly, "when you first spoke, I--but perhaps I am simply tiring
you?"

There was a small pause, and then the lady spoke, with apparent
reluctance:

"I am not tired."