Lindau suddenly broke into a laugh and into English.
"Oh, well, it is only dalk, Passil, and it toes me goodt.

My parg is worse than my pidte, I cuess.

I pring these things roundt bretty soon.
Good-bye, Passil, my tear poy.

Auf wiedersehen!" XIII.
March went away thinking of what Lindau had said, but not for the impersonal significance of his words so much as for the light they cast upon Lindau himself.

He thought the words violent enough, but in connection with what he remembered of the cheery, poetic, hopeful idealist, they were even more curious than lamentable.