‘You put that thing away now, missie. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. “You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. And will you look! His name neatly cut out from each title page. Playing became a way of escape.
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