"A personal experience revealed to me my life's work," he, went on,
thoughtfully stroking his blond mustache. "If Miss Barrison would care
to hear it--"
"Please tell it," she said, sweetly.
"I shall have to relate it clothed in that artificial garb known as
literary style," he explained, deprecatingly.
"It doesn't matter," I said, "I never noticed any style at all in your
story of the thermosaurus."
He smiled gratefully, and passed his hand over his face; a far-away
expression came into his eyes, and he slowly began, hesitating, as
though talking to himself: