For a while Smith just stood there staring at the three visitors. Then he turned toward Blake. "Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "You really do have an overactive conscience, don't you!" He faced the three women again. "Get off his back, you creeps! Can't you see he's got enough troubles without you dogging his footsteps?" He opened the door. "Out, all of you, before I throw you out!" Three frightened looks settled on the three thin faces, but neither Miss Stoddart nor Officer Finch nor Vera Velvetskin made a move in the direction of the door till Smith advanced upon them with lowering countenance. Then they fairly scampered from the room. Officer Finch was the last in line, and Smith helped her along with the toe of one of Blake's cracked boots. The shriek she emitted coincided with the slamming of the door. Smith leaned weakly against the door and began to laugh. "Shut up," Blake said, "and tell me who they are!" Tears were rolling down Smith's blotchy cheeks. "_You_ know who they are. You created them, didn't you? The skinny one is the one who told you about Moses in the bulrushes and the husky one is the one who saw to it that you didn't step out of line in school and the one with the nice shape is the one you associate with the immaculateness of your mother's kitchen sink. Spiritual virtue, civil virtue--and physical virtue!" "But why did I create them?" Blake demanded. "And why are they following me around like a bunch of vindictive harpies?" "There!" Smith said. "You almost had it. Not harpies, though--Furies. Erinyes. Tisiphone, Megaera, Alecto. You created them because you wanted to punish yourself. You created them because you can't accept yourself for what you are. You created them because even after putting me in exile you're still conscience-crazy, and they're following you around and bugging you because you want them to follow you around and bug you--because you want to be reminded of what a heel you think you are! You always were a Puritan in wolfs clothing, Blake." The remark angered Blake to the extent that it dispelled his amazement. He shoved Smith away from the door and opened it. "All that may be," he said, "and maybe I did know you once upon a time. But don't let me find you here when I get back. Understand?" He paused in the doorway, frowning. "Tell me one more thing, though. Why Burns's birthplace? Why should a memory-image like this appeal to a mind-comber?" Smith grinned. "Bobby Burns has always fascinated me--just as he has you. Or should I say 'us'?" The grin turned into a leer, and he picked up the bottle and waved it back and forth like a baton-- My love, she's but a lassie yet, My love, she's but a lassie yet; We'll let her stand a year or twa, She'll no be half sae saucy yet; I rue the day I sought her O! I rue the day I sought her O! Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, But he may say he has bought her O.