What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. ’ ‘Don’t call me by name,’ she snapped. “Is everything okay?” His mother touched his 251 shoulder gently, standing up. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Why were you following Valade?’ She shrugged and turned away, moving as if to seek escape among the bookshelves all about one corner of the room. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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