“Ungracious little beast, I call her. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. “Mary!” He whispered loudly. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. "To me?" gasped Winifred. When she judged that she must be nearly back at the library, she began to feel somewhat dispirited. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Hopefully. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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