"McMann turned around. He picked up the bag. I asked where he was going. 'Ashore,' he said, to think. I may go back to Kansas City—I may. But I'll just think a bit first. And he climbed into the ship's boat. I never saw him again."
The hermit paused, and gazed dreamily into space.
"That," he said, "was my one great lie, my masterpiece. A year afterward I came up here on the mountain to be a hermit."
"As a result of it?" asked Miss Norton.
"Yes," answered Mr. Peters, "I told the story to a friend. I thought he was a friend—so he was, but married. My wife got to hear of it. 'So you denied my existence,' she said. 'As a joke,' I told her. 'The joke's on you,' she says. That was the end. She went her way, and I went mine. I'd just unanimously gone her way so long, I was a little dazed at first with my freedom. After fighting for a living alone for a time, I came up here. It's cheap. I get the solitude I need for my book. Not long ago I heard I could go back to her if I apologized."
