It was a coolish morning, but we preferred to breakfast in the
south verandah. The forenoon we spent in the garden, pretending
to play games that come out of boxes, such as croquet and clock
golf. But most of the time we drew together and talked. The young
man who knew all about South American railways took Miss M'Leod
for a walk in the afternoon, and at five M'Leod thoughtfully
whirled us all up to dine in town.
"Now, don't say you will tell the Psychological Society, and that
you will come again," said Miss M'Leod, as we parted. "Because I
know you will not."
"You should not say that," said her mother. "You should say,
'Goodbye, Mr. Perseus. Come again.'"
"Not him!" the girl cried. "He has seen the Medusa's head!"
Looking at myself in the restaurant's mirrors, it seemed to me
that I had not much benefited by my week-end. Next morning I
wrote out all my Holmescroft notes at fullest length, in the hope
that by so doing I could put it all behind me. But the experience
worked on my mind, as they say certain imperfectly understood
rays work on the body.
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