McClintock will have some. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Immeasurable disgust possessed her. She got a bun and some cocoa in the little refreshment-room, and then wandered through the galleries up-stairs, crowded with Polynesian idols and Polynesian dancinggarments, and all the simple immodest accessories to life in Polynesia, to a seat among the mummies. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. I must bless him before I die. Good riddance.
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