Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. I don't believe he is much past forty. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. "I'll fetch it.
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