“You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. She took to listening through closed doors. She hated the manor. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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