Somewhere below the surface of Horatius' steady stream of words, Pamela was constructing an elaborate argument of her own, albeit inside the confines of her mind. This, as it were, bracketed argument was, alas, lost to the world, owing to the girl's failure to consign it to any means of preservation other than her fallible memory. This mental construct must have been engrossing enough, for she failed to notice his departure.
Some circumstance or other must temporarily have then released her from the verbose young man. At which point, and on occasion of my approaching her on the not entirely unrelated topic of her seeming languorousness, Pamela, unexpectedly aroused, chose to paint in vivid colours Horatius' unwitting talent, when holding forth in her hearing, to virtually sap her of her will to appreciate all that was enjoyable in life.
Nodding in silence, I offered to roll her chair closer to the window, so that the autumn sun might warm the thin blanket covering her legs, and took my leave, in some haste admittedly, as Horatius was returning.
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