And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. Ramage demurred. I shall have no faith in future in bolts and bars. Her anger died and she eyed him. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. I thought that you were he.
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