He took the first step toward the stairs, and met the restraining hand of McClintock. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur. He stopped abruptly. He looked the boy over with interest. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. After a day or so, perhaps, we will go on one or two little excursions and see how good your head is—a mild scramble or so; and then up to a hut on a pass just here, and out upon the Blumlis-alp glacier that spreads out so and so. "I am not to be deceived.
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