" "And why not?" asked Kneebone, eagerly. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. Your life is like a funeral March. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. " "Never mind," returned the stranger, dismounting; "you'll recollect me by and by, I've no doubt. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ” “You will make me horribly conceited,” he answered. I tried. He never finished his sentence. “Why not?” He asked. It ought never to have begun.
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