He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. They sold him the whisky. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. They even talked about friendship. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred.
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