"Over him they crawled, a veritable army of the bloated, venomous creatures."
The whole affair from its conception was extraordinary. A strange adventure into an unknown region of the world, a strange discovery, and a strange conclusion. It had no equal in any fiction that I knew, and the actors were like characters in a drama.
Of Mrs. Seton I had learned much. Nowadays, when one reaches that indeterminate age which really tactful people designate as "over thirty," one doesn't fold one's hands and settle down to a grave, dignified old age. The modern woman refuses to grow old. It was not denied that Clara Seton was beautiful. Her eyes sparkled with the fire of life. She had not lost that priceless charm of youth. From a girl, red-blooded, daring, eager for a life of constant thrills and excitement, she had matured, only to crave even more the popularity, admiration and applause that follow the victorious participation in certain fascinating events.
But it was Graves in whom I was interested. I knew Mrs. Seton had long been infatuated with him. As he chatted with her in the lobby I went outside and waited. I did not want to lose him. I had met him in France, and there was something about him—he had been one of us.
