When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. You know the sort of thing. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. Once more he was the searcher. McClintock says they can't get in there, or at least they never try it. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. Thames did not attempt to offer him any consolation, for he was almost as much dejected.
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