Not because I had brought my mind back, but because our visitors last words were in my ear, I presently enquired with gloomy irrelevance if Guy Walsingham were a woman.
"Oh yes, a mere pseudonym--rather pretty, isn't it ?--and convenient, you know, for a lady who goes in for the larger latitude.

'Obsessions, by Miss So-and-so,' would look a little odd, but men are more naturally indelicate.

Have you peeped into 'Obsessions' ?" Mr.Morrow continued sociably to our companion.
Paraday, still absent, remote, made no answer, as if he hadn't heard the question: a form of intercourse that appeared to suit the cheerful Mr.
Morrow as well as any other.

Imperturbably bland, he was a man of resources--he only needed to be on the spot.

He had pocketed the whole poor place while Paraday and I were wool-gathering, and I could imagine that he had already got his "heads." His system, at any rate, was justified by the inevitability with which I replied, to save my friend the trouble: "Dear no--he hasn't read it.