“Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Hitherto in the world’s history there had been precursors of this Progress at great intervals, voices that had spoken and ceased, but now it was all coming on together in a rush. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo. That’s Italians for you. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. CHAPTER XXIV.
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