Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. " "We waste time with this fellow," interposed Sir Cecil, "and may lose the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building. It's so stuffy—and all that tobacco smoke!" He inspected his watch. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth.
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