While he was swinging in mid air, Thames regarded his uncle with a stern look, and cried in a menacing voice, "We shall meet again. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again.
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