He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. She began to look for beauty and discover it in unexpected aspects and places. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. .
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