he done to you?'

He ground his teeth, looking terrible but ineffectual. 'Stolen beauty.
That's what his sort does. He kills lovely things that fly and run,
for sport, and he steals beauty, spoils it.'

'Who?' she whispered.

'That man Sales.'

'No, no. Who has he stolen and spoilt?'

'Heavenly music--and my happiness. I lost a bar--a whole bar, I tell
you. I'll never forgive him. I can't get it back.'

'If that's all--' Henrietta gestured.

'And there are others,' Charles went on. 'I never forget them. I meet
them in the streets and they look horrible--like beetles.' 'I believe
you're mad,' Henrietta said earnestly. 'It's not sense.'

'What is sense?' Henrietta could not tell him. She looked at him, a
little afraid, but excited by this proximity to danger. And I thought
you would understand.'

'Of course I do.' She could not bear to let go of anything which might
do her credit. 'I do. But you exaggerate. And Mr. Sales--' She
hesitated, and in doing so she remembered to be angry with Charles
Batty for maligning him. 'How can you judge Mr. Sales?' she asked with
scorn. 'He is a man.' 'And what am I?' Charles demanded.