The man's whole face--save for eyeholes through which
dark pupils looked strangely out--was covered by a close-fitting,
flesh-colored celluloid mask.
This mask reached from the roots of his hair to his mouth. It sloped
away down the left jaw, and somewhat up the cheekbone of the right
side. The mask was firmly strapped in place around the head and neck.
"What does all this mean, sir?" demanded the Master, sharply. "Why the
mask?"
"Is that a necessary question, sir?" replied the aviator, while a buzz
of curiosity and suspicion rose. "You have seen many such during the
war and since its close."
"Badly disfigured, are you?"
"That word, 'disfigured,' does not describe it, sir. Others have
wounds, but my whole face is nothing but a wound. No, let me put it
more accurately--there is, practically speaking, no face at all. The
gaping cavity that exists under this mask would certainly sicken the
strongest men among you, and turn you against me.
"We can't tolerate what disgusts, even if its qualities be excellent.
In exposing myself to you, sir, I should certainly be insuring my
rejection. But what you cannot see, what you can only imagine, will
not make you refuse me.
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