And yet, hadn't he just read that Maeterlinck, fifty-six, had married Mademoiselle Dahon, many years younger?
In a kind of resentful fury he pushed back his chair and fell to pacing, eddies and loops and spirals of smoke whirling and sweeping behind him.
The only light was centred upon the desk, so he might have been some god pacing cloud-riven Olympus in the twilight.

By and by he laughed; and the atmosphere--mental--cleared.

Maeterlinck, fifty-six, and Cutty, fifty-two, were two different men.

Cutty might mix his metaphors occasionally, but he wasn't going to mix his ghosts.
He returned to his singular game.

More tiaras and necklaces; and his brain took firm hold of the theme which had in the beginning lured him to the green stones.
Two-Hawks.